


Hope Beyond Reason

by AfricanDaisy



Series: The Iathrim Chronicles [19]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Healing, Healing Sex, Hope, Kings & Queens, Last Alliance of Elves and Men, Magic, Mordor, Poison, Powerful Women, Royalty, Second Age, Sex, Spanking, The Valar, Vision - Freeform, War, foresight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfricanDaisy/pseuds/AfricanDaisy
Summary: Hope is what sustains life, but in the middle of war the King of Greenwood doesn’t know how much longer he can hold onto it.





	1. Fool's Hope

It was difficult to concentrate when one was being watched. The eyes that lingered on Aran Oropher were a single shade of green darker than his, but they were identical in shape. Almond-shaped, like their father’s had been. The King of Greenwood still remembered a tiny version of himself, solemnly telling his father in the days leading up to the birth of his younger brother that he was sorry he didn’t look much like him and he hoped the new baby would. Lord Celepharn had laughed, which even now Oropher remembered clearly because it had startled him so. He recalled feeling offended that his father, of whom he had thought so much, would _laugh._ As far as he had been concerned, it was only right for an heir to be like his father in all ways.

 

Little Oropher hadn’t announced that he was upset, for that wouldn’t have been proper, but Celepharn must have known it. He had told his son to follow him in that way he’d had – commanding, firm, not to be disobeyed, yet somehow not at all frightening even for a seven year old boy – and he’d led the elfling to the tall looking-glass in the master bedroom. Oropher had been well acquainted with that mirror, for he had often watched his beautiful mother twirling in front of it in one of her lovely gowns, but that moment had belonged to him and his father. Celepharn had knelt behind him and patiently pointed out all the features they shared; the shape of their eyes, the colour of their eyes when the light touched them just so, the curve of their ears, and fine strands of hair even though Oropher’s was dark like Neldiel’s and Celepharn’s was the silver gold of the royal house.

 

Three thousand years later, a similar conversation had taken place between Oropher and his own little son. It had never bothered him that Thranduil at first glance looked like Felith with their shared sunshine golden hair and eyes that gleamed like starlight off a still lake. He and Felith had lost four babies before Thranduil had been given to them. Son or daughter, dark or blonde, serious or full of mischief – they hadn’t cared, as long as their child survived. And so he had, but the apparent differences between him and Oropher had upset him enough that one day he had anxiously asked his father if it was quite all right that they didn’t look the same. Oropher had loved the happiness that had bloomed in his little boy’s eyes as he had shown him all the smaller, subtle ways they were alike. He wondered if Celepharn had felt the same way. He hoped so. He had finished that lesson with Thranduil by placing his hand over the elfling’s chest, and telling him that it didn’t matter what they looked like on the outside, for on the inside their hearts were one. Thranduil had smiled at him so brightly, so lovingly, it had made his heart soar. Now it just made his heart clench when he looked back at that moment.

 

Now, every memory of Thranduil hurt. Saying his name hurt. Holding his pillow close in the dark of night and inhaling his sweet, wild scent of berries and brambles, that hurt too. Just thinking of him hurt, so Oropher made himself stop. Even that hurt, feeling like a betrayal to force his thoughts away from his poor son, but the alternative would bring him to tears. Letting out a breath and tiredly pushing his hand through his hair, the King looked at his brother across the pavilion. The Lord Steward of Greenwood intently returned his gaze from the cushioned bench he was sitting on. “You want to say something,” Oropher acknowledged with a sigh. “You might as well get it over with.”

 

Lord Vehiron smiled, his warrior braids glittering with pearls, black opals, moonstones, and silver beads. “I thought you might be interested to know how many times you have swept your hand through your hair in the last twelve minutes.”

 

“Does it make a difference to you if I am not?” Oropher asked.

 

“Six times,” Vehiron promptly informed him. “That is excessive.”

 

“You came into my private space uninvited. Do not then complain about the way I behave in here,” Oropher said irritably.

 

“Not even Cousin Luthavar touches his hair that often,” Vehiron added.

 

“Good for Cousin Luthavar,” Oropher retorted, raising his hands defensively. He picked up his quill and tried to return his attention to the requisition order the healers had asked him to authorise for none other than Elder Luthavar himself. He had been making good progress on his work before his younger brother had come in, but now the words swam on the page. Anger threatened to overtake mere annoyance, but then he made himself stop and think. For the briefest of moments, Vehiron had made him forget. He hadn’t been a weary warrior or a desperate father or a tired King. He had just been an elf annoyed with his little brother, and right then that was simpler than any other role he had to play. He looked up, and met the younger ellon’s beryl green eyes. “Thank you.”

 

Vehiron just nodded, smiling slightly. He understood. “Go. See your son.”

 

“Muindor,” Oropher sighed, feeling exasperated all over again. “I would spend every hour of every day with Thranduil if I thought it would make a difference, but it hasn’t and it won’t. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because he…” The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in Oropher’s throat, paining him. “I will see my son when I have time,” he finished quietly, when he had steadied himself. “At the moment, I do not. I still have to be Aran Oropher.” _Even when all I want to be is Ada._

“The world hasn’t stopped turning,” Vehiron agreed quietly. “But yours has.”

 

Oropher looked down and organised his paperwork into a neat pile, for no reason other than he needed the distraction to hold tears at bay. He had shed enough of those over the last eleven days and fourteen hours, alone or with those few elves he trusted implicitly. Vehiron was one of them, but Oropher was tired of tears. They couldn’t save his son and so they served no purpose. He looked up again only when the papers were perfectly linear and to do anything more to them would just be excessive. “I might delegate this to you,” he said offhandedly.

 

“You might,” Vehiron agreed.

 

“Very well,” Oropher said, rising. “But do not work past midnight.”

 

“I will work until the work is done, muindor,” Vehiron replied.

 

“No, you will work until midnight and then you will stop and seek your rest, and I will deal with whatever is left in the morning,” Oropher said firmly. “It isn’t up for discussion, muindor-laes. I need you healthy.”

 

“Then let us compromise, and say that I will stop when I reach a natural break,” Vehiron suggested. “Else you won’t make sense of your work when you return to it.”

 

Oropher conceded the point with a sigh and a nod as he picked up his forest green cloak, but he made a mental note to have someone check on Vehiron after midnight. His brother was good at promising to take care of himself, but he wasn’t good at following through with it. Much like Oropher himself, and their father from whom they had inherited it, and Thranduil who was just the same. It was a family trait that the Queen of Greenwood had often despaired of along with stubbornness and recklessness. The King gave Vehiron’s shoulder a grateful squeeze on his way out of the royal pavilion, and the Captain of his guard fell into step behind him as he walked away, a steady yet reassuring presence at his back.

 

The ground crackled lightly beneath their feet as they walked. So close to Mordor it was often sweltering and uncomfortable even for the elves when the sun was at her highest, but at night it wasn’t unusual for the temperatures to plummet so much that layers of frost formed. Most of Oropher’s elves who weren’t committed to patrol or other duties were already sheltering in their tents. Some yet remained around the campfires, and he paused to briefly speak with them. His heart was elsewhere, but he was still their King. He still had a duty to them. None of them kept him for longer than a minute though. That late at night, it was obvious where he was going. None wished to deprive him.

 

His ears ringing with so many good wishes for his son, Oropher finally reached the healing tents. They were quiet but not truly silent. They never were, not even in the dead of night, and Oropher knew that because he had spent many an early hour there. If it wasn’t the footsteps of a healer making their rounds, it was a feverish warrior tossing and turning or a traumatised soldier waking from a nightmare with a shout of fear. It was impossible to escape the war even for a second. It was always there, an inescapable fact of thousands of lives.

 

The sight of the two ellyn standing guard outside the private bell tent where Thranduil lay sent both fondness and exasperation rushing through Oropher. Not three days before, a serious conversation had taken place between the three of them in which he had made it abundantly clear to Linwë Carandirion and Veassen Taldurion that he expected at least a few hours of their free time to be spent in bed. He didn’t expect it every day, for sometimes the requirements of war prohibited rest. He also didn’t expect them to sleep every time they sought their beds, for sometimes the nightmares of war made it impossible, and he knew that all too well. He had, however, expected some measure of obedience from them, especially the generally sensible and well-behaved Veassen, but it seemed they had both developed selective hearing. It was almost a relief to Oropher that his wife’s little cousin Fileg Halmirion had fractured his ankle the week before and, confined to bed, was one less young elf for him to worry about.

 

“I find myself surprised by your presence, my young warriors,” he remarked. Linwë stood a little straighter but steadily met his eyes, while Veassen dropped his chocolate brown gaze to the floor. The King thought that was less to do with him and more to do with Veassen’s grandfather standing just off to the side. He had heard the slight creak of leather armguards as Captain Rhoven folded his arms, and he knew that wasn’t usually a good sign. “I seem to recall discussing this with you both very recently.”

 

“You did, your Majesty, and we listened,” Linwë said. “But when we left from visiting Thranduil this evening, we offered to relieve his guards so they could get dinner.”

 

“That offer was well made,” Oropher acknowledged. “When are you expecting them to return from dinner?”

 

“They…they returned already, your Majesty,” Veassen said nervously, looking up.

 

“Ah. And where are they now?” Oropher asked calmly. “Having dessert?”

 

Nearby torches illuminated the rosy blush that coloured Veassen’s cheeks. “Perhaps they are, sir.”

 

“Enough of that, elfling,” Captain Rhoven snapped from behind Oropher.

 

“Lieutenant Carthalon and Lieutenant Angtheldir came back from dinner two hours ago, and we told them – or rather, I told them – to leave again,” Linwë said, taking pity on Veassen. “They didn’t want to, but I didn’t give them much of a choice, so you can’t blame them.”

 

Oropher put one hand on Linwë’s shoulder and the other on Veassen’s, and he drew the young elves in closer to him. “I know,” he said quietly. “You miss him. You want to be near him. Believe me, I know. Your dedication to my son, your heart-brother, is something that I have always treasured but I need you to take care of yourselves as well. The two of you are doing too much, especially now that you are both looking after Fileg as well. If Thranduil wakes and finds you both exhausted…”

 

_If._ It was just a turn of phrase, but it stopped Oropher dead as he realised what he had said. Linwë was suddenly as stiff as a statue, his expression stony, and Veassen looked in dismay between the two of them. “With your permission, sire, I’ll escort our young warriors back to their pavilion myself,” Captain Rhoven interjected. He clapped a hand on Veassen’s shoulder, making his grandson squirm unhappily. “I’ll see to it that they get their rest. _And_ that we don’t have any more of this nonsense.”

 

“Very good, Captain,” Oropher agreed distantly.

 

He didn’t watch Rhoven leave with the lieutenants, or pay attention to their receding footsteps or the quiet scolding his captain was delivering. His eyes were fixed on the canvas door to the tent. He had lost count of how many times he had stepped through it over the last couple of weeks, but it never got any easier. The fear of what he might find on the other side never changed. Taking a deep breath, the King of Greenwood put his hand out and swept the flap aside. He stepped into the tent only to immediately stop, caught off guard. The raised bed that his son had been in since that fateful day was still there, and Thranduil still occupied it, deathly pale as if Mandos was only just out of reach. A healer was present, as always, but tonight he wasn’t making observations or administering medicine or whatever else he and his fellows did to keep Oropher’s child alive. Tonight, the healer was asleep.

 

Oropher felt as though he had stepped into a private and intimate scene as he gazed at his son’s fingers entwined with the healer’s, but he didn’t begrudge Nestorion those close and quiet moments alone. Six yéni of standing in for Oropher when he couldn’t be Ada because he had to be King had earned Nestorion the right to them. He had loved Thranduil, taught him, disciplined him, laughed with him and wiped his tears, healed his hurts, and taken as much pride in him and his accomplishments as Oropher and Felith had. He belonged at Thranduil’s side. Feeling like an intruder, Oropher hesitantly took a step back. He wasn’t used to being the one to leave. Still, Thranduil would be there tomorrow. _Unless he dies before then_ , said a nasty little voice somewhere in his head that made him catch his breath.

 

It made Nestorion wake, and he sat up slowly. “Forgive me, aran-nín,” he murmured, brushing strands of pale chestnut hair out of his eyes. “I did not know you were there.”

 

“No, I was at fault. It was not my intention to disturb you. I…” Oropher’s eyes went back to his son. He couldn’t deal with niceties and pleasantries when he had to know. “How is he?”

 

“I wish I could tell you something new,” Nestorion said quietly. He tucked Thranduil in more securely, and gently passed a hand across his patient’s pale brow. “There is no change.”

 

Oropher hadn’t considered it before, but now he reflected that it seemed cruel to make the Master Healer say out loud every day that there were no signs of Thranduil waking. It must pain Nestorion to say it as much as it pained him to hear it. “But he has still been breathing by himself?” the King asked.

 

“Yes, and that is more than we had expected,” Nestorion replied.

 

The poison on the edge of the blade that had sliced through a gap in Thranduil’s armour had succeeded. He had died in his father’s arms on the battlefield. Oropher had felt it. He’d felt that spark go out, the breaking of the bond that had tied them together as father and son for just short of a thousand years. For a minute that had felt like an immortal lifetime, there had been nothing. But Thranduil had come back. By the grace of the Valar, and his father’s love and rage, and the skills of the healers, he had defied the odds and returned to life – if life it could be called, when he lay there as if he had remained dead. It had to be better than nothing. That was what Oropher told himself. If he let Thranduil go, that was it. Over. Finished. But if Thranduil was breathing – and he was, and there hadn’t been any breathing complications for nearly a full week now – then that meant there was hope.

 

“I will leave the two of you alone,” Nestorion said softly, as he got to his feet.

 

“Don’t go,” Oropher replied. “Please. Stay with me. With him. You have every right.”

 

Nestorion paused for just a moment before resuming his seat at Thranduil’s bedside with a quiet nod of gratitude to Oropher. King and healer sat opposite each other, both holding a pale hand in theirs. “I remember the first time I ever met him,” Nestorion murmured, breaking the silence. “It was twelve days before your coronation. You came to the palace with Thranduil and the Queen. Your brother was there, and his son, and Lord Herdir and Ivoniel. Elder Faelind and Elder Aermanis were showing you around and introducing you to your new staff. Elder Serellon and Elder Thavron were there to point out interesting facts about the structure of the palace, and Elder Luthavar…why was he there, again?”

 

“To this day I don’t know,” Oropher admitted, with a small and reluctant smile. “He took great joy in showing us all the hidden doors and passageways, and planting all sorts of mischievous thoughts into Thranduil’s mind. Poor Faelind was trying his best not to show us how vexed he was, when all he really wanted was to haul Luthavar across his knee.”

 

“A sentiment felt by all of us to varying degrees of regularity.” Nestorion’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but he stopped short of laughing. It was hard to laugh when Thranduil lay like a marble statue between them. “Anyway…you didn’t make it to the healing wing until the afternoon. Thranduil stood between you and the Queen, with his hand in hers. He was so little. Not even waist-height. And he’d met so many new people and heard so many new names, and he had behaved so well all day, that he was too tired to even look at me. I was afraid that you would scold him for it but you didn’t. You just put your hand on his head. That was all it took. He stood straighter, as if he had drawn strength from you, and he met my eyes and gave me the sweetest smile. I knelt before him, and promised him that he could always come to me for help when he needed it.”

 

“And you have been keeping him alive for me ever since,” Oropher said quietly.

 

Nestorion nodded, his gaze going to Thranduil’s snow-white face. “Yes,” he agreed after a pause. “But you know, he took my words quite literally. He didn’t need healing the first few times he came to me for help.”

 

“He didn’t?” Oropher repeated, his voice heavy with longing to hear more of the son he could never know enough about.

 

“The first time he came to me it was because he had got lost trying to find his way to your study,” Nestorion recalled. “The second time, he wanted someone to help him finish a jigsaw puzzle. And the third time, he asked me to hide him because he was in trouble with Bereth Felith for inadvertently frightening one of her ladies with a mouse he wasn’t supposed to have. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was a healer and not an all-round helper in all things. It was only on our fourth meeting, when he came to me with a splinter in his finger, that I had cause to actually heal him.”

 

“Times were much easier then,” Oropher said, stroking his son’s cheek with the back of his finger. “He was easier to protect. I wish splinters and trouble were all he had to fear, and that I could still strengthen him with the touch of my hand.”

 

The two ellyn met each other’s eyes across the body of the poisoned prince. Oropher had done everything in his power to bring his son back from the brink, but seeing the gleam of hope in Nestorion’s leaf green gaze and the unspoken plea to try again…it gave him hope, too. Slowly and carefully, just like the earliest days when he had been afraid of damaging his tiny infant son, he moved his hand to Thranduil’s head. Golden strands shifted like silk beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and poured his strength into his child, willing him to take it, waiting for a sign. It didn’t even have to be a big one. A little one would do. A squeeze of weakened fingers, a deeper breath, the flutter of lashes, a touch of life in white cheeks, something, anything, he didn’t care what. There was nothing. Just a fool’s hope, Oropher thought hollowly, taking Thranduil’s hand again as he sat back for another night-time vigil.


	2. A New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Oropher’s vigil at his son’s bedside, the lords of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men meet to discuss Thranduil’s fate.

It was the twelfth day.

 

Aran Oropher didn’t recall falling asleep, but he must have because he remembered the sky outside being an inky black and not the purple-grey of dawn that it was when he opened his eyes. Nestorion was no longer there either. Alone with his son for another precious few minutes as the war camps awoke, he spoke quietly to him. It made him feel better to speak to his child and imagine that somehow Thranduil could hear him. “Lots of people will be talking about you today,” he murmured, stroking Thranduil’s golden hair. “Everyone has been thinking of you and asking after you, but today we are to have a meeting all about you. You pretend not to mind but you hate being the centre of attention, don’t you. Still, I think you would find this funny. All the lords and commanders coming together just to talk about you? You would laugh. Ah, my Thranduil, I miss your laugh. I hope…”

 

And he had to stop then, because he didn’t know what he hoped. His heart was torn. “I hope we make the right decision for you,” he whispered finally. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Thranduil’s brow, his hand tenderly cupping the young prince’s head.

 

It pained Oropher to turn his back on his son, but so he did, returning with a heavy heart to the royal tent where the air inside was redolent with citrus. Grateful to whichever of his attendants had thought to arrange a bath for him, he paused by his desk. What he saw made him roll his eyes. All of his work was done, at least everything that he had set out to do the night before and some that he hadn’t as well. He wondered what time Vehiron had gone to bed, or if he had at all. Probably not. He pushed it from his mind for now, and made his way slowly through the pavilion. It was tall enough for even the tallest elf to stand straight, with silk hangings dividing the tent into rooms and intricately carved wooden screens to block out noise.

 

There was the lounge area with comfortable seats, a table for dining, and a chest containing books, games and other treasures from home. Beyond that was a makeshift study where Oropher did his work and received visitors who wished to speak with him privately. At the back of the tent were the sleeping quarters. They had originally been divided into two, with a bedroom on either side, but last year the hangings had been taken down to make them into one large space. Lately a prisoner of war and captive of the Dark Lord, Thranduil had suffered from violent night terrors worse even than those that had plagued Oropher after the Fall of Doriath. Thranduil had needed to be near his father when they came, and Oropher had needed him near. The night terrors hadn’t stopped after that, and perhaps they never would, but they had at least lessened. That was something.

 

As Oropher reached the bath set behind a screen on the other side of the bedroom, he paused and stared through the swirling steam. Four days ago he had asked Nestorion if Thranduil could still dream. Nestorion hadn’t answered right away, letting out a slow and deep breath as he considered his answer. Finally, he had explained that not enough was yet known about a comatose state to be able to say with any certainty whether or not a patient could dream. That hadn’t been any comfort to Oropher, because he didn’t like the thought of his child being shrouded in darkness, but as ever he had valued Nestorion’s honesty. Now, he suddenly found himself hoping that Thranduil couldn’t dream. If he was unable to dream, there would be no nightmares that he couldn’t wake from. The King couldn’t help but dwell on those thoughts as he undressed and began to scrub away the dust of Mordor.

 

Fresh clothes had already been laid out for him, but he didn’t look at them and his hands worked methodically. It was only after, when he stood before the mirror in the bedroom and stared at his reflection, that he noticed the colours. His leggings and light cambric shirt were the hues of a storm-washed afternoon sky, and the just above knee-length tunic he wore over them was a richer shade of sapphire blue. His sigil, the great oak tree beneath a winged moon, was embroidered across the chest in delicate silver thread. They were his clothes, but they were Thranduil’s colours. His son loved blues and silvers, and they were one of the many things that Oropher automatically thought of when he thought of Thranduil.

 

“Are you satisfied with the clothing, aran-nín?”

 

Oropher didn’t move, but his eyes shifted slightly. He watched in the mirror as his wife’s cousin Lord Halmir Dagorionhil stepped into the room with various accoutrements in his arms. “The choice was well made. Thranduil would approve.”

 

“I know I have done well when my sartorial arrangements pass the exacting standards of the Crown Prince,” Halmir murmured, setting down a pair of dark grey leather boots and a set of silver vambraces engraved with a pattern of leaves and vines. He met Oropher’s gaze in the mirror, his sky blue eyes twinkling, and began wrapping a white and silver silk sash belt around the King’s waist. “When they pass Elder Luthavar’s, I know I have done _exceedingly_ well.”

 

For the first time that day, Oropher managed a smile. “Eru forbid Lutha disapproves of a fashion choice. Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about it. His eyes would just…you know.”

 

“Do that thing,” Halmir agreed.

 

That made Oropher’s smile turn into a little chuckle as Halmir knotted the belt at his side. Everyone knew when his cousin Luthavar saw something that offended his fashion sense, for he could never quite control the incredulous flicker and flare of his dark eyes. Sitting down to pull on his boots and fit the silver vambraces around his forearms, Oropher reflected that it was likely an automatic reflex that Lutha was unaware of rather than something he did on purpose. Lady Aiwen, the youngest daughter of Halmir and twin sister to Fileg, had once publicly scolded Lutha for being rude and judgemental after one such look made a lady of the court burst into tears. Lutha had looked genuinely appalled by the accusation, but then he had snapped at Aiwen that he was only ever rude and judgemental in his head, but for what it was worth, anyone who paired fuchsia and lime – in a dress with frills, no less – ought to be tried for outraging public decency. The two hadn’t spoken for a month after that.

 

“Speaking of elflings,” Oropher said, sitting at the dressing table and starting to prepare the braids at the left side of his head while Halmir started on the right, “I am afraid I haven’t had a chance to visit Fileg these last few days. How is his injury?”

 

“Ah. His injury.” Halmir fell silent with a frown as he deftly wove beads and gems into the first of Oropher’s braids. There was the pattern of the royal house of Doriath – pearls, black opals, silver beads and moonstones, which Lord Vehiron and Thranduil wore as well – interspersed with some that were personally meaningful to the King. He wore lapis lazuli in memory of his parents, blue larimar for his wife, and star sapphire for his son. “Fileg’s injury is not greatly concerning,” Halmir said finally. “It is just a broken ankle. He will be fine soon enough.”

 

Oropher had been afraid that the younger ellon would say something like that. “Do you remember when Thranduil broke the little finger of his right hand? That was the year before last. He had spent the evening in Elendil’s camp, accepting the most foolhardy and reckless challenges from the young men until finally he landed awkwardly during some stunt and injured himself. I was so cross with him. As soon as he returned from being bandaged up, I embraced my fatherly duty and began to scold him.”

 

“Did he not tell you that it was dishonourable to use violence against a maimed war veteran, so you had to wait to punish him?” Halmir asked.

 

“Yes, the insolent bratling,” Oropher laughed, tying off his braid and starting the next one.

 

“And you summoned Healer Nestorion,” Halmir recalled.

 

“I did, and he was quite willing to inform my son that warmth to the muscles would stimulate blood flow and speed up his healing. Thranduil isn’t often lost for words, but he had no rebuttal to that. My point, Halmir, is that despite my exasperation and the punishment I gave him for showing off and behaving recklessly, I still felt awful for him,” Oropher said. “Every time he knocked his finger or stifled a cry because he’d tried to pick something up without thinking, my heart ached for him – even though it was _just_ a broken finger. So don’t tell me that Fileg’s injury is not concerning. I appreciate your thinking of me, but just because my son is…the way that he is, right now, that doesn’t mean you should feel guilty for worrying about _your_ son. Now please, mellon-nín – how is Fileg?”

 

Halmir exhaled in relief as he picked up a handful of gems from a pot on the dressing table. Of course the injury wasn't nothing. Fileg was his son, and that meant it was everything. “Healer Nielinyë went to check on him yesterday evening. Now that the swelling has gone down, it seems that the break is a simple one and it should heal quickly enough if he takes it slowly. In himself, Fileg is…well, struggling.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Oh, he is angry with himself for causing the injury. And he’s not wrong, it was self-inflicted, but I can hardly blame him for being upset about Thranduil. Veassen told him to kick a pillow next time instead of a rock, but I don’t think Fileg is ready to hear jokes yet,” Halmir replied. “He is quiet and he grieves for Thranduil. He wants desperately to visit him, but the ground is too rough for him at least until he is able to walk with crutches. Healer Galad is going to bring them tomorrow.”

 

“I hope he will be in better spirits soon,” Oropher said gently.

 

Halmir smiled at the other ellon in the mirror. “As do I.”

 

They finished the braids more or less at the same time, and the outfit was completed with a silver circlet upon the King’s brow. He thanked Halmir, who responded by quietly wishing him luck. It was time to go, and there was no putting it off. Part of him just wanted it to be over with even as the thought of what was to come filled him with dread. Waiting for him outside the royal pavilion was his brother, along with their best friend and Oropher’s most trusted Chief Advisor, Lord Herdir. He clasped the arms of both ellyn in greeting as he stepped out to meet them. “Well,” he sighed. “I suppose we must go.”

 

“Yes,” Herdir said sympathetically. “The others are gathering. How are you feeling?”

 

“I…I have no idea,” Oropher admitted, realising that he truly didn’t.

 

“That’s fine.” Herdir gave his friend a small but reassuring smile. “You don’t have to.”

 

“We are with you, muindor,” Vehiron added.

 

They had always been with him. They had seen him through the very best of times and the very worst of times, sharing in his pain as easily as they shared in his laughter. Oropher shared blood with only one of them, but Vehiron and Herdir were both his brothers and best friends. It had been important to him that Thranduil experience that same level of loyalty and friendship, for a life lived without friends was a lonely one. Oropher knew he wouldn’t have got far without his. He gave the two of them a strained smile, and he drew one final deep breath before taking his first step in the direction of the camps of Ereinion Gil-galad and Elendil, where a command tent in blue and silver with green and gold trim lay on the border between the two.

 

When he arrived there, most of the seats within were occupied. The High King of the Noldor was at the great round table with Captain Glorfindel in his golden armour, and Lord Elrond, to his left. On his right was the King of Arnor and Gondor, with Elendil’s proud son Prince Isildur and eldest grandson Elendur to his right. Sitting next to Elendur was the new King of Lórien, young Aran Amroth. That still startled Oropher sometimes. He missed his beloved cousin Amdír terribly, though he thought Amdír’s son would do well enough at ruling with the right guidance. Much of that guidance would come from Amroth’s great-uncle Lord Celeborn, who sat to his right. Then, there were three empty seats. Herdir took the one next to Celeborn, with Oropher in the middle and Vehiron on his other side next to General Rochendil and Captain Curulas of the Greenwood army. Finally, completing the circle between Curulas and Elrond was Master Healer Nestorion.

 

“We have come together today to decide the fate of Prince Thranduil,” Ereinion said quietly, when everyone was settled. “If all are ready, we shall begin.”


	3. Choices Before Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Prince Thranduil lingers in the shadow world between life and death, the meeting gets underway.

“We have come together today to decide the fate of Prince Thranduil. If all are ready, we shall begin.”

 

As the High King of the Noldor looked around at the Elves and Men gathered at the table, Oropher felt the sudden inappropriate urge to shake his head and laugh. It had to be because this felt so unbelievable and surreal that it couldn’t possibly be happening. Surely Thranduil was going to burst in at any moment now, delighted with himself for pulling off the world’s most elaborate prank which somehow he’d got everyone to keep secret just to fool his poor, long-suffering father. Oropher so wanted that to be true that he couldn’t help glancing towards the door. He was disappointed, though not surprised, when the only movement was a rare breeze that made the tent flap flutter.

“This story starts twelve days ago,” Ereinion said. “It seems to me only prudent to hear from an elf who was there for its beginning. Captain Curulas, if you will.”

 

The ellon next to Master Healer Nestorion wore the green and silver uniform of the Greenwood military, with small braided knots of bronze, silver and gold thread pinned to his tunic to show his rank and the number of yéni he had served. In his ash blond warrior braids he wore river pearls and wooden beads painted in green and gold. He dipped his head to Ereinion, and took a barely perceptible breath. “Twelve days ago, I led a routine patrol of two dozen warriors who serve under my command. Among that number was the King’s son in his capacity as Lieutenant. We were riding along the foothills of the Ephel Dúath when we encountered a band of some sixty orcs. The ensuing skirmish was not anything out of the ordinary, but Thranduil was pulled from his horse during the fighting. He was quick to get back to his feet and fight on.”

 

A few places around the table, Captain Glorfindel gave a curt nod of his golden head. “I’d expect nothing less.” Having started out as a hero in elfling Thranduil’s bedtime stories, he had in time become a trainer and mentor to the young prince. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, and some of their disagreements had been nothing short of explosive, but Glorfindel was one of Thranduil’s greatest allies more often than he was one of his greatest detractors.

 

“He remained on his feet for a short while after the fighting was done, tending to the wounded and gathering the slain orcs for burning,” Curulas continued, “but it became clear that something was wrong. He suddenly went white. He was unsteady on his feet, and anxious and nervous. It is often necessary for me to speak sternly to Lieutenant Thranduil about his own welfare, but this time he agreed without any argument to rest. No sooner had he said so than he collapsed. I removed his armour and found that a blade had pierced it on his right side. It wasn’t a serious wound, not enough to explain his condition, but the skin around it was bright red. We had already sent for healers, for two of my other warriors were badly injured. They came, and the King was with them. It was too late. By the time they arrived, Thranduil was…he…”

 

Curulas was brusque yet eloquent by nature, but now his words were failing him. Oropher didn’t blame him for that. “Thranduil was dying,” he finished for his Captain, surprising even himself with how matter-of-fact he managed to sound.

 

“Thank you, Aran Oropher, Captain,” Ereinion said quietly, nodding to both of them in turn. “Thranduil has shown no signs of regaining consciousness since his collapse on the battlefield. It was agreed after six days that if this remained the case by the twelfth day, a council would meet to debate what is to be done. This is where we find ourselves today, my lords. With that in mind, I would like to invite Master Healer Nestorion and Lord Elrond to speak. They have been Thranduil’s primary caregivers throughout this time.”

 

The two healers exchanged glances across the table. An unspoken message passed between them as Elrond dipped his head slightly, which Nestorion returned with a brief nod before speaking. “For the first two days, the Prince was unable to breathe on his own. A tube passed down his throat allowed air to reach his lungs, with a healer at his side night and day to give him manual ventilation by compressing a small set of bellows. We were able to wean him off this method of breathing on the third day once he had stabilised.”

 

“Does he still breathe unaided?” Prince Elendur asked, unable to conceal the hope in his voice.

 

“He does, your Highness,” Nestorion replied. “Only twice since the third day has he needed help. That is greatly reassuring.”

 

“But it is the only _greatly reassuring_ thing to have happened since this all started,” Prince Isildur remarked. “I hardly think one can place too much value on it.”

 

Oropher recognised the irritated flicker of Nestorion’s green eyes, but only because he knew him well. His healer friend maintained a neutral expression as he turned his gaze to Isildur. “Prince Thranduil does not react to any stimuli. He does not perspire or shiver when the temperature changes. His eyes do not react to light. A needle pricking his finger or the sole of his foot prompts no response. And yet, he returned from death to breathe on his own and survive this long. If anything is to be placed on that, Prince Isildur, it is value.”

 

Not for the first or last time in nearly a thousand years of friendship, Oropher wanted to hug Nestorion. He resolved to do so after the meeting, but in the meantime settled for a small yet grateful smile while Elendil’s heir just raised his eyebrows and said nothing. “What can you tell us of the poison?” Ereinion asked.

 

Surprisingly, it was neither of the healers who drew breath to speak but General Rochendil. Strands of golden hair glinted among red as he leaned forward to address the gathered Elves and Men. “I went with Captain Elthoron and his unit when they rode out to help with the clean up. Two unwise young soldiers and a junior officer handled the enemy blades without protection. Two of them only got red and itchy palms for their troubles, but Soldier Tirithon became breathless and anxious, and reported pain from his finger all the way up his arm.”

 

Oropher noticed that Lord Celeborn had raised his head particularly sharply at the mention of the young soldier, though he couldn’t imagine why. As he looked thoughtfully at his older cousin, he was vaguely aware of his brother speaking. “Why did this warrior react differently to the other two?”

 

“I examined his hand myself, Lord Vehiron, and I found a not yet healed cut to the tip of his index finger where the hands of the other two were unmarred,” Rochendil replied. “It was a vivid red, but he told me that for the last two days it had been barely noticeable.”

 

“How fares Soldier Tirithon now?” Celeborn asked intently.

 

“Quite well, my lord,” Rochendil said. “He spent two days under the care of the healers and suffered no lasting damage.”

 

“Good,” Celeborn murmured, half to himself.

 

Oropher wondered why Celeborn cared. No, not why he cared. His cousin was known for his kindness and compassion. He wondered instead why Celeborn cared _so much_ about a soldier who wasn’t his. Unless the soldier had been seconded to the Greenwood army from Lórien. It wasn’t unheard of for warriors to move around. But…Tirithon, Tirithon. The King knew that name. Where did he…yes, of course. Tirithon Merildirion was the youngest brother of Elder Nithaniel, who concerned herself with the welfare of Greenwood’s young, and Lieutenant Carthalon who was one of the longest serving members of Thranduil’s guard. Why would his name make Celeborn react so? _No_ , Oropher sternly told himself. _Today is for Thranduil. Mysteries can keep for another day._ He turned his attention back to the table in time to hear Rochendil concluding that the effects of the treated blades were consistent with spider venom, while Elrond and Nestorion both nodded agreement.

 

“But…Thranduil and this soldier weren’t the only two to have the venom enter open wounds,” Amroth ventured. “Did the others end up like Thranduil, or did they heal like Soldier Tirithon?”

 

Nestorion looked at the young King of Lórien and gave him an encouraging smile. He might not have much patience for the heir of Elendil, but Amroth’s respectful questioning and willingness to learn were different. He had a great deal of time for anyone like that, be they man or elf. “They were not the only two, your Grace, no. Nine other warriors received open wounds in the fighting. All experienced symptoms similar to those described by Soldier Tirithon, though he and they were affected much more slowly than Thranduil. It saddens me to report that two of those warriors died, but their deaths were caused by the severity of their wounds. I have no doubt that the venom expedited their passing, but it cannot be blamed as the sole cause. The remaining seven warriors, like Soldier Tirithon, were kept in the care of the healers. They have all, without fail, since been released and given clean bills of health.”

 

“Then I don’t understand why the same hasn’t happened for Thranduil,” Amroth protested. “Captain Curulas said his wound wasn’t serious. And spider venom? That is hardly the worst poison the healers have ever dealt with. So why…it doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“I believe it does,” Elrond said quietly, breaking his silence for the first time. “All present here today know of the events that took place a year ago.”

 

Yes. They knew. Oropher had forgiven Thranduil, because he was his father and that was what a good father did even when his child broke his heart, but it still horrified him to the depths of his being when he thought of the worst mistake his son had ever made. For as long as the King could remember, and to the despair of all who loved him, Thranduil had learned early on to master the art of slipping his guards. He had spent most of his life using that skill to sneak out in the middle of a storm and jump in puddles, or to visit his friends, or escape punishment or the pressures of being a prince, and a whole other glittering array of youthful misdemeanours – until the previous year, when he had put that Eru-forsaken ability to what he had believed to be good use. For months, he had crossed enemy lines under cover of darkness, a secret and deadly assassin in the night. He hadn’t let anyone in on his secret – not his father, an older mentor, not even his best friends. If he had, surely one of them would have been able to get through to him and help him manage his despair of a war that seemed unending. Surely one of them would have made him see that even when he killed a hundred creatures of the Dark Lord in a single night, that was still just a single tree felled out of thousands. But nobody had, for nobody had known.

 

Spies had reported that Sauron’s forces were frightened and skittish, afraid of the Silent Hunter who came for them at night. Thranduil had been at that meeting, his arm thrown over the back of his chair with his usual youthful insouciance. He had smiled, and his eyes had glittered like crystals as he said, “Good. They should be afraid”. It had been a throwaway comment made by a young warrior who misguidedly admired whichever brave soul was putting their life on the line to save others and end the war sooner. Everyone had taken it that way. Nobody had imagined the truth. Nobody had guessed that Thranduil was the Silent Hunter, but that didn’t assuage Oropher’s guilt. He should have realised. That was what he told himself every day. He was Thranduil’s father. He should have _known_. But he hadn’t, not until it was too late. Not until the night he was sent a blood stained braid crudely cut from his captured son’s head. Then, realisation had come crashing down with the most unspeakable force.

 

Six months, two weeks, and three days. That was how long Thranduil had been a prisoner of the Dark Lord, and every day had felt like a hundred years. The allied lords had done everything to get him back short of agreeing to withdraw their troops or abandon the war. All the truces, parleys, and negotiations in the world hadn’t made a difference. Oropher meeting in secret with one of the darkest of Sauron’s servants and begging on his knees to swap places with his son hadn’t changed anything. The great Lieutenant of Barad-dûr had caressed his cheek with the back of a gauntleted hand, making him shudder in revulsion, and whispered that his master would take pleasure from breaking the proud King of the Woodland Realm…one day, when there was nothing left of the pretty golden prince to play with. Oropher had wept, and raged, and the next day when he had ridden into battle even his own warriors had feared him, for none had ever seen such fury from their King who they loved for his compassion and just heart.

 

Finally, another young elf had made the decision to cross enemy lines. That young elf was Linwë Carandirion. His heart-brothers Fileg Halmirion and Veassen Taldurion, and the three sons of Prince Isildur, had gone with him. Disguised as Easterlings with dust-darkened skin and charcoal painted around their eyes, they had made it to the Tower of Barad-dûr itself where they had found their lost brother and friend. He had been a shell of himself, broken in mind and body, but alive – not just alive, but hanging on to just enough strength of spirit that he was willing to keep living. He had been returned to the arms of his father, who knew that he could never repay that debt, and the infinitely long road to recovery had begun.

 

“All here know that Thranduil suffered untold torment during his captivity. He was exposed to darkness that many of us cannot imagine,” Elrond was saying, his rich voice at odds with the horrors that he spoke of. “It is a testament to his strength of character that he survived at all, but what he endured cannot be underestimated. I believe the venom that entered his body found something within him to cling onto.”

 

“Something like what?” Prince Elendur asked slowly.

 

“Not a physical thing, you understand. Residual darkness left by Sauron’s touch, perhaps,” Elrond replied. “Or a darkening of the spirit from his own dark feelings and memories. I cannot say for certain at this point. But, captivity by the Dark Lord is the greatest thing that Thranduil and those other warriors who all recovered do not have in common.”

 

“You cannot say,” Isildur repeated. “But what you are saying, Uncle, without speaking the words, is that this stems from an arrogant princeling thinking he can go his own way because he knows better than all the great lords and commanders of the Last Alliance.”

 

Elrond drew breath to reprimand his many-times great nephew, and Oropher’s emerald eyes flashed even as the other elves of Greenwood stirred in anger, but it was Captain Glorfindel who pounced first. “Thranduil made a mistake that nearly cost him his life, and that will always follow him. But answer me this, Prince of Men, who among us can say that they have never erred? That they have never done wrong in the interests of doing right? I will never say that what Thranduil did was wise. Not even his father will say that. But it was brave, and it was selfless. Too much heart has always been Thranduil’s problem. He cares too deeply. What he did was not for himself, not for valour or glory, but for every one of us stuck here in this Valar-forsaken place.”

 

“My sons nearly died for him,” Isildur spat, gripping the edge of the table.

 

“Because they deemed him worth dying for,” Glorfindel snapped.

 

Oropher was shaking. Not visibly, but he could feel his entire body trembling. Whether it was from sadness for his son, fury at Isildur, or just an instinctive and animalistic need to defend his child…he couldn’t pinpoint which emotion was flooding his _fëa_. Maybe it was all three. Under the table, his fists were clenched so tightly that they ached. Vehiron reached across from the right and gently uncurled them for him. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, relaxing marginally as his brother took his hand and soothingly stroked it with his thumb. Everyone else around the table was silent, even Elendil’s heir, though the man’s jaw was set and his dark gaze was like flint.

 

“It seems we are all in agreement about how Thranduil was injured, what poison entered his body, and why he has not recovered when others have,” Lord Celeborn said finally. “The past has a bearing on our meeting today, but past grievances do not. It is the future that we must turn our attention to.”

 

“Indeed. It seems to me there are currently two choices before us,” Ereinion said. “The first is simple. Nothing changes. Thranduil remains under the care of the healers who know him well, and near the love and strength of his friends and family, until he awakens.”

 

“If he awakens. Can we justify dedicating a bed, a tent, medical supplies, and constant care to one elf?” King Elendil asked, not unkindly. “The siege has been relatively quiet these past twelve days, with only minor skirmishes that we have dealt with swiftly, but that will not remain the case. There will come a day, maybe next month or as soon as tomorrow, when all hell breaks loose as it has before and will again. With the best will in the world, King Oropher, your Master Healer cannot be sat counting breaths at your son’s bedside when that happens.”

 

“I do not disagree with you, King Elendil,” Oropher replied, sounding calmer than he felt.

 

“My nephew has three sworn brothers,” Vehiron said. “Lord Fileg, and Lieutenants Linwë and Veassen, all swore oaths of fealty to him when he came of age. They go where he goes. He also has a guard of five loyal warriors. Is it not an option to move him from the healing tents and have him looked after by them, and by me and his father, with a healer checking on him daily? That hardly differs from the care Fileg is currently receiving for his broken ankle.”

 

“A broken ankle is a temporary thing, my lord,” Elendil said. “So might this be, but how long do we wait to find out? Another twelve days? Twelve weeks? A year?”

 

“What if Thranduil was sent home to recover?” Amroth suggested tentatively. “Would that be so terrible?”

 

“I do not believe so,” Ereinion replied. “That is the second choice for us to discuss.”

 

Glances passed between the Greenwood elves, and it was Lord Herdir who spoke for them. “This is something that we have already considered. The head of our Merchants and Traders’ Guild travels extensively to ensure our forces here and our people at home have all the necessary supplies. The journey between here and Greenwood is not impossible. Elder Luthavar and his company have escorted injured warriors home before. It would not be asking too much of him to safely see Thranduil to Greenwood, along with the Prince’s guards and sworn brothers.”

 

“Those ellyn have all been here since the start of the war,” General Rochendil supplied. “Being sent home might be good for them too. They can easily be replaced by reserves from the Home Guard, and the Prince would be cared for at home by his mother the Queen and those healers who remained behind. It is entirely possible,” he added, glancing apologetically at Oropher and gentling his tone, “that being away from this foul place might ease the darkness that grips Thranduil.”

 

Oropher valued honesty even when it was something he didn’t want to hear. He had never liked the idea that a subordinate or even a loved one might shy away from speaking openly to him just because of who he was. That had been the way of things in Doriath when his twice-great uncle Elu Thingol had ruled. Oropher wasn’t without flaw, but that particular quality was not one that he had ever wished to embody as the King of Greenwood. So he accepted Rochendil’s words, and dismissed the unspoken apology. “It is quite possible, yes,” he said. “I would be objecting for selfish reasons if I were to disagree with you.”

 

“Say the Prince is sent back to Greenwood,” Isildur interjected. “It frees a bed for another warrior and the healers have one less patient to look after. What else does it solve?”

 

“We are not here to discuss anything else, nephew,” Elrond said warningly.

 

“Let him speak.” Oropher stared at Elendil’s heir across the table. “What do you suggest?”

 

“A third option,” Isildur replied, and the King’s heart sank.


	4. A Blaze of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted and heartsick, Oropher decides his son’s fate.

If there had been time, Oropher thought that he would have been able to pick out exactly what each of the other twelve individuals around the table were feeling. There was Glorfindel’s open hostility tempered by Nestorion’s quiet disdain, while the only sign of Elrond’s disappointment was a slight tightening of his jaw. Amroth was doing his best to conceal his anxiety, but his restless shifting said that he wasn’t quite succeeding. He was the King of Lórien now; he would have to get better at hiding his feelings, Oropher thought distractedly, as Prince Elendur sat back in his chair with a reluctant sigh that wasn’t quite soft enough for the gathered elves to miss. Aware of Vehiron’s tense trepidation and Herdir’s dismay to either side of him, the King of Greenwood searched inside to try and identify his own ever-changing feelings. Most prevalent was the wearisome burden of resignation, because he knew. He knew what was coming.

 

“Then tell us this third choice,” Glorfindel bit off. “But have a care with how you speak.”

 

“You seem to be labouring under the delusion that I am here to cause offence, Captain Glorfindel,” Isildur remarked. “I am not. I am simply here to speak bluntly.”

 

“Then do so, nephew, before we move on,” Elrond said.

 

Isildur acknowledged the command with an impatient gesture, but it was Oropher his eyes were fixed on. “I am not in the habit of softening my words, so here it is. If he was my son, and I knew he was suffering and his chances of recovery were slim, I would consider if the kindest thing would not be to let him go.”

 

So many around the table reacted that Oropher wasn’t even sure of everything that was said. He felt so oddly detached from everything that Isildur might have suggested something as polite as putting on a cloak lest it rained soon. _Let him go._ It sounded…well, not nice, because Oropher knew what it meant no matter how pleasantly it was phrased, but peaceful. Almost gentle. There wasn’t a lot of that at war. There was blood and screaming and fear, but few warriors were lucky enough to just be let go of. It was what they hoped for, should death come to them, but only the fortunate ones got it. Just slipping away would make Thranduil far luckier than many of his comrades. It would be like falling asleep. Except he was already in an endless sleep, so it would be like…nothing.

 

Oropher was brought back to the room not by the sound of his younger brother cursing Isildur or Glorfindel’s fist slamming the table, but by the usually reserved Captain Curulas surging to his feet. “Five minutes ago you were calling my warrior an arrogant know-it-all princeling with no respect for the leaders of this Alliance, yet you have the gall to sit there and speak those words? How dare you?”

 

“I must apologise on behalf of my son,” King Elendil began wearily, as General Rochendil caught Curulas by the back of the tunic and pulled him down into his seat.

 

“Do not apologise, Father,” Isildur interjected. “No topic of conversation was forbidden. I hardly expected anyone to like what I had to say, but I broke no rules.”

 

“You suggested the death of a living Prince, you absolute-” Almost absent-mindedly, Oropher stepped on his brother’s foot beneath the table. Part of him was interested to know what colourful moniker Isildur had been about to receive, but on the whole he thought that it wasn’t the time for Lord Vehiron’s creative insults to start flying.

 

“Living?” Isildur repeated incredulously. “Is that what you call it? Say rather he is existing.”

 

“Call it what you will.” Lord Celeborn was one of the few who had not openly reacted to Isildur’s words when most everyone else around the table had exploded with anger and shock, but Oropher knew him well enough to recognise the sorrow in his silvered eyes. His cousin had lost so much already in his life. The thought of losing another whom he loved had shaken him to his core. “He is breathing unaided, as has already been established, so there is no such thing as just letting him go,” Celeborn continued. “ _If_ that was ever going to be an option, it would have been ten days ago when a tube and a bellows were breathing for him. Not now.”

 

Isildur shrugged – how could he be so casual when he was speaking of Thranduil’s death, Oropher wondered numbly - and looked between Elrond and Nestorion. “But there are ways. Kind ways. Are there not? Can you both tell me that in all your years of healing you have never helped a patient on their way as a kindness?”

 

“No healer will ever tell you that,” Elrond said gravely.

 

“But what you are suggesting is reserved for the most hopeless of situations,” Nestorion argued. “We don’t yet know that this is a lost cause, so how can you-”

 

“You lied.” The words were quiet, but the healer immediately fell silent and every gaze turned to Oropher. He ignored them all, save one. “You lied, Prince Isildur. You said if it was your son, you would consider letting him go. That is untrue. Four months ago when Prince Aratan was on the brink of death with a scimitar lodged in his ribs, you told your healers – no, you _commanded_ them – not to let him die. When they told you it was hopeless, you called upon Lord Elrond and my Master Healer to save him. You did everything to save your child. You would not hear of _just_ letting him go.”

 

“Because he is mortal,” Isildur replied. “Your child is not. Prince Thranduil has lived a thousand years, and he will live a thousand more whatever happens to him here.”

 

“Death is still death,” Amroth protested, bravely staring down the Prince of Men even as tears for his lost father shone in his eyes.

 

“I do not say the parting would be without pain, nor the long years of separation,” Isildur replied. He looked back at Oropher, meeting his gaze. “But who would suffer the most? Thranduil, or you?”

 

There it was. Oropher sat in stunned silence as the weight of the words fell upon him. He understood now, and the sharp stab of realisation was replaced by the dull ache of acceptance. He stood then, pushing back his chair and letting his hand rest briefly on his brother’s shoulder. _Don’t follow me._ Vehiron would understand. He always did. They didn’t need words. Oropher said something out loud too, but he had no idea what. Perhaps he had cursed Isildur for making him finally see, or perhaps he had simply excused himself from the meeting. Either way, he left without looking back. The guards who were waiting for their lords in the rest tent adjoining the pavilion all stirred as he went past, and though he was in a daze he had the presence of mind to give Captain Rhoven a distracted, negligent gesture that told him to stay. He had to be alone. He wouldn’t go far but he needed time, he needed…he didn’t know what he needed.

 

The war camps stretched out in front of Oropher, and he came to an abrupt halt and stared out across them. He didn’t really see the hundreds of tents that littered the dust-ridden plains like makeshift cities. He could only look at his own self as he was forced to re-evaluate everything that he had ever believed of himself. He had always tried to be good in all that he did and was, but _good_ wasn’t just _good_. It was made up of many things. For the far too short five hundred and twelve years he’d had his parents, he had been a dutiful son and heir. He had always been a protective brother, and to Elu Thingol, Dior Eluchil, and Ereinion Gil-galad, he had been a loyal subject. He balanced being a fierce warrior with being a clever academic, and he believed that those qualities had helped shape him into a wise peacetime King. As a friend he was true, and a beloved nephew, uncle and cousin with all the time he could give to those who named him so. From the moment that he and Felith had joined with each other, he had been a loving husband. And finally, as a father, he had been dedicated. Good things, yes, all good things, but did they mean anything on their own? What use were any of them if they were twinned with selfishness?

 

He didn’t know how long he stood there with so many unsettling thoughts spinning through his mind before he heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the council tent. He was grateful to Glorfindel for making his presence known, because it gave him time to brace himself for the solid clap to the shoulder that the golden haired warrior gave him. He grimaced, but managed not to sway with the force of it. The Balrog-slayer often reminded him of a large dog that either didn’t realise – or didn’t care – how strong he was. Oropher thought the latter was more likely. He nodded briefly to Glorfindel, but he didn’t speak. He had nothing to say, and he supposed the older ellon had sought him out for a reason.

 

“Isildur is an ass.”

 

Oropher hadn’t expected that to be the reason, but it was as good as any. “He is honest.”

 

“A wise elf once said that an honest ass is still an ass,” Glorfindel replied.

 

“Which wise elf was that?”

 

“Me,” Glorfindel said, with a smile that showed his teeth. “Nobody blames you, you know. Walking out. I’d have done the same. After smacking Isildur in the face, of course.”

 

“It was too much. I just needed…” Oropher gestured vaguely. Fresh air was in short supply, so he could hardly say that. “I cannot even be angry with him. Maybe his words were in poor taste, but he was right – no topic was forbidden. And yet I am angry, Glorfindel, because he has made me look at myself more deeply than I have ever cared to.”

 

Glorfindel dismissed the King’s words with an impatient wave of his hand. “Don’t start that. You’re a damn fine father. You always have been.”

 

“I’m not saying I am not a good father. Thranduil is one of the things I have got right. But if I have kept him alive because I cannot bear for him to be gone, because I am afraid of not being able to see him or touch him, that means I have fought for him for the wrong reasons. It means I have fought for him for _me_ , and that makes me a selfish father,” Oropher said honestly. “I would never want to be that.”

 

“As if anyone could ever accuse you of it,” Glorfindel scoffed. “Everyone knows you would move mountains for that boy.”

 

Almost against his will, Oropher’s eyes were drawn to the Ephel Dúath in whose foothills Thranduil had received the minor wound that had changed their lives. He wished something had happened that day to stop his son going out on patrol to those shadowy mountains. Oversleeping, or misplacing his weapon, or turning up for duty smelling of wine. Any of those things would have earned Thranduil a strapping from Captain Curulas, and Oropher certainly would have added to it for that last one, but it would have been worth it. None of them would have happened though, Oropher thought bitterly. His son was far too dedicated and professional a warrior to ever make any of those mistakes. It would have to be something else, then. Maybe if Thranduil had stubbed his toe as he walked around the tent barefoot, he might have overbalanced and broken his ankle. Fileg had a broken ankle and he was going to get better, Oropher had time to think with a trace of resentment, before quickly wrenching himself away from that dark line of thought. He refused to wish that anyone other than himself could take Thranduil’s place, especially another whom he loved.

 

He looked away from the mountains, and his gaze passed over a cloud of dust off in the distance. Another routine patrol, he thought absently, or a training exercise. “Did you know my parents?” he asked suddenly, turning to face Glorfindel.

 

The great warrior wasn’t often caught off guard, but the question appearing out of nowhere made him blink. “Yes. In the First Age in Beleriand, and later in the West. In fact, I once delayed my departure from Nargothrond back to Gondolin just so I could meet your father.”

 

It was Oropher’s turn to be startled. “You did? Why?”

 

“Oh, I heard he was due to come and meet with Finrod on behalf of Elu Thingol, and I had to shake the hand of the elf who punched Celegorm Fëanorion in the nose,” Glorfindel remarked.

 

Oropher groaned. “Wonderful.” Lord Celepharn had been one of Elu’s most esteemed ambassadors, and on that particular occasion he had taken his two sons with him to Nargothrond to witness the intricacies of inter-realm relations. What he hadn’t known was that the third son of Fëanor had been a guest in Nargothrond as well, visiting his cousin the King, and that their stays would overlap. What _Oropher_ hadn’t known at the time was that his parents had fallen afoul of Celegorm on a previous ambassadorial visit to the kingdom of Aran Finrod. Celegorm had taken a liking to Lady Neldiel, and had thought to take her for himself, but to his furious disbelief she had rejected his advances. Infuriated by the behaviour of his cousin, Finrod had sent both Celegorm and his younger brother Curufin from Nargothrond the very next day, and that had been the end of it – at least until the visit that Celepharn had taken his sons on. Word had reached him of nasty lies that Celegorm had spoken about Neldiel, and he had reacted swiftly in defence of his wife. Not only had he publicly denounced Celegorm, but when Fëanor’s son had insulted Neldiel in front of him, he had delivered a single blow that had knocked him out cold. Some people had cheered the foreign prince. Others had not, for after all he was just a Sinda who should never have dared to strike a more superior Noldo. Either way, Celegorm had again been sent from Nargothrond, but with a broken nose for his troubles.

 

“He was a good ellon, your father,” Glorfindel said with a fond grin. “Still is from what I knew of him in the West. Clever. Loyal. Fiercely protective, and so willing to defend an elleth’s honour that he risked making a personal enemy of the worst of Fëanor’s sons. I respected him, and your mother too. Her free spirit and wicked sense of humour always gave me great joy, and I admired that she was never afraid to fight for what she believed in nor defend those less able.”

 

“I remember those things about them too,” Oropher said distantly. “I recall Adar’s quiet but steady support, and that Naneth was the best listener with all the time in the world for us. She used to love baking, you know. Oh, but she was terrible at it. She would sneak down to the kitchens because Herdir’s father, our head baker, banned her after she exploded the oven for the second time in as many weeks.”

 

Glorfindel laughed out loud at that, his vibrant eyes twinkling with mirth. “You and your brother were lucky.”

 

“We were.” Oropher fell silent for a moment, deep in thought and lost in the past, but then he looked intently at Glorfindel. “Did you know Felith’s parents?”

 

“Not her parents,” Glorfindel replied, giving the younger elf a measured look. “But I knew her little brother. He was one of my first students after I was Reborn.”

 

“Felith always says Thranduil reminds her of him,” Oropher ventured.

 

“Bright-eyed with a ready smile, eager to learn, eager to please. Yes, I can see why she says that. But Gwindor always had greater respect for his poor teachers than Thranduil, and he was a damn sight better at obeying instructions and following rules.” Glorfindel spoke with wry levity, but he hesitated as he saw pain flicker in Oropher’s green eyes. He squeezed the other elf’s shoulder in wordless apology. “Now, I don’t mind wandering the lanes of memory with you and exploring family history, but how about you tell me why all of a sudden we’re doing it.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Oropher said flatly.

 

“Oh, it’s something,” Glorfindel retorted. “I’ll get it out of you one way or another. Your choice.”

 

Oropher shook his head and walked away a few paces, only to turn and restlessly walk back the way he had come. He turned again then, and raised his hands in frustration. “Say what you will about Isildur, but he is right. Thranduil is existing, not living. He might never wake up, and after twelve days maybe I am just a fool clinging on to the hope that he will. I have just heard that letting him die is the best thing for him. _I love him_ and _I’ll miss him if he is gone_ are not good enough reasons to keep him alive, so maybe I’m just searching for a reason not to let him die. But there are no unselfish ones, are there? It would be different if I knew there was nobody waiting for him in the West, or if my parents were not the good elves we both know they are, or if Felith’s family were awful. But if I let him go, and he was Reborn however many years from now, whole again in every way, he would be given to elves who would love him. They would look after him for me, and keep him safe. He wouldn’t hurt or fear. He wouldn’t stop breathing in the night. He would _live_ again.”

 

“Don’t,” Glorfindel said, with quiet intensity. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“How is what he could have in the West worse than his reality here and now?” Oropher demanded, his dark hair swinging around his shoulders as he paced up and down. “Isildur was right. Everyone shouted him down and I called him a liar, but none of us had time to think it through. I have now, and damn him but it makes sense. You wouldn’t keep an animal alive when it was suffering, so why is it right to do the same to an elf? Elrond and Nestorion will know the best way to do it. They can do it today, and Thranduil can be free. I can do this last thing for my son and-

 

As the King swept past him to turn and pace back the other way, Glorfindel reached out and caught him by the side of his tunic. “You are not going anywhere near Elrond and Nestorion, because you are not making this decision yet.” Wide-eyed and enraged, Oropher tried to step back from him, but he tightened his grip and pulled the younger elf closer. “Don’t even try it, elfling. Right now it looks like you and I are just having a quiet chat, but if you fight me on this I swear I will put you on the ground in front of all the guards, King or not. You are exhausted. You are heartbroken. You don’t eat, you barely sleep, you are sick with worry. You are _terrible_ at delegating and letting others take the burden, and like your cursed father and your ridiculous son you never think to take care of yourself. All this on top of the fact that you’d barely started getting your head around last year and it has already come back to bite you. So stop, Oropher. Stop it. Just stop.”

 

Oropher started to shake his head in protest, but almost against his will the shake turned into a helpless nod. “I cannot do this any more, Glorfindel. I am lost.”

 

“Lost perhaps, for now, but never alone,” Glorfindel whispered. Forgoing his usual style of rough affection, he drew Oropher into his embrace and just held him silently, one hand cradling the back of the other elf’s head. “Come with me. You will sleep, and when you awake, that will be time enough to think about-”

 

“My lords!”

 

The shout made Glorfindel whirl around, and Oropher stepped back feeling dazed and breathless. He looked up slowly, and watched a blond warrior in Lórien’s blue and gold uniform race towards them across the dusty rocks. Haldir, he thought dimly. His son and Haldir had met as elflings, and they had despised each other at first sight for no reason that either of them had been able to properly articulate to their baffled and often exasperated elders. That centuries-long enmity had come to an abrupt end one night near the start of the war when the two young warriors had served extra guard duty together for similar infractions. It wasn’t that any bond of fellowship had formed between them after hours on their feet nursing cold hands and paddled backsides, or that they had tentatively started sharing their sad experiences of the war. No, they had simply discovered that they both enjoyed snacking on cheese paired with slices of green apple – never red, because they were a touch too sweet. Oropher had rolled his eyes skywards when his son had cheerfully told him all about it the next morning, before deciding that he was happy to accept anything that meant Thranduil and Haldir occasionally smiling at each other rather than glaring and scowling every time they crossed paths.

 

“My lords, riders bearing the banners of Lórien and Greenwood were spotted approaching from the northwest this morning,” Haldir reported, after a quick salute. “They have ridden swiftly, and they draw near.”

 

“We are not due to receive reinforcements from the Woodland Realms yet,” Glorfindel replied, exchanging a glance with Oropher. “Have you heard differently, Aran Oropher?”

 

“No. I…” Oropher hated that he had to pause to consider the question. _Had_ he heard differently? He had always prided himself on his meticulous approach to his work, but Glorfindel was right – he was exhausted in body and soul. Perhaps he had made a mistake. Maybe it was quite possible that in his grief and his fear, he had forgotten some important piece of information or misplaced a report that contained these very details. “No,” he said again after a moment, more firmly that time and sounding more like himself. “No, I have not. This is news to me.”

 

“No, your Majesty, Captain,” Haldir interrupted. “You don’t understand. It isn’t reinforcements. At least, not the kind you’d expect.”

 

“Then what is it, elfling?” Glorfindel demanded.

 

Oropher could see Haldir frantically explaining something, but he didn’t hear anything that was said. It was as though all sound had suddenly been removed from the world, for deep inside he could feel a bond getting stronger. Hope flared for the swiftest and brightest of moments. “Thranduil,” he whispered, hardly daring to dream. But he realised even as he spoke his son’s name that their bond still lay dormant. What he could feel was love, yes, but not the love of a father for his child. It was a different love. And yet, he didn’t understand how it could be so. Could his bond lie to him? Was that even possible, he wondered, as the sound of rapid hoof beats cut into his daze. He watched Haldir turn and stare in shock, and then he watched Glorfindel, and he saw how the usually unshakeable Balrog-slayer’s eyes widened. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and turned slowly.

 

The bay mare that cantered through the camp towards the council tent was one he hadn’t seen in six years. In fact, she had been little more than a foal when he had marched to war. Still, he recognised the proud arch of her neck and the aristocratic nose that she shared with her father, his own loyal stallion. Noril came to a prancing sort of halt, and Oropher gazed in wonder as her rider dismounted. He took in every tiny detail – dark riding gloves with a pale layer of Mordor dust clinging to them, a hooded dark green cloak with a silver clasp set with chips of malachite, and silver leaves embroidered across the bodice of a forest green gown. Its hem was trimmed in gold, the skirt divided for riding. The slit up the centre revealed white leggings and knee-high boots of dark brown leather. He stared at thick waves of sunshine hair, bound back with a golden fillet, and eyes of determined summer blue. What he was looking at was a vision, he thought numbly, taking a step back in disbelief. Perhaps his mind had finally broken and he really had gone mad.

 

But the hands that came to rest on his chest were real. The cheek that he touched with hesitant fingers was real. And the voice, when it broke through the stunned silence, was one he had known and loved for two millennia. “I have come to save our son,” said the Queen of Greenwood the Great.


	5. Alliance of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Thranduil's life lies in the hands of those who have come to save him. For his father, a glimmer of hope shines through the darkness.

“Felith…” Oropher breathed out his wife’s name, savouring it as if it was the first time he had ever spoken it. He could smell the sweet scent of roses that always lingered around her, and he could still feel the silken touch of her lips lingering on his. He could sense the reinforced threads of their bond, made all the stronger for having held her in his arms again. He could _see_ her. She was right in front of him, as real as he was. And yet… “Is this real?” He didn’t care if he sounded an idiot. He had to know that he hadn’t finally descended into madness.

 

The Queen laughed, and even though it was tinged with sadness, and despite everything, the sound sent a frisson of joy through Oropher. “It is real, melethron-nín.”

 

“But, how…”

 

“No. Not yet,” Felith implored. “Please, take me to him.”

 

Of course. She didn’t need to say anything more. Oropher took her by the hand to lead her back to her horse, but Glorfindel was already approaching with Noril’s reins in his hand. “Go. I’ll deal with that lot back there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the pavilion. He looked at the Queen then, and his expression softened as he smiled at her. “Your being here will gladden many hearts, Bereth Felith, mine included. I only wish we were seeing you in better circumstances.”

 

“That is my wish too, Captain,” Felith replied, returning his smile. She looked past him towards the tent. “Is Lord Celeborn within? He will wish to know that the Lady Galadriel journeyed with me.”

 

“She journeyed with you, or you journeyed with her?” Glorfindel snorted in wry amusement as the Queen of Greenwood had the grace to blush. “Never mind. I’ll be sure to tell him.”

 

“Lady Galadriel is here?” Haldir repeated cautiously, lingering a respectful distance away. “And, my mother…”

 

Felith smiled kindly at the young warrior, but Oropher recognised that it didn’t reach her eyes. He hardly blamed her. Long before Haldir and his brothers had come along, their mother had served Lady Galadriel’s family in Aman. She had been a nursemaid to the young princess, and she had remained loyally at her side ever since. Her dedication to Galadriel couldn’t be faulted, even if Oropher privately felt that at times it bordered on the obsessive, but unlike his own former nurse Ivoniel, who was part of his family and unreservedly loved each and every one of them as if they were her own children, grandchildren, or nieces and nephews, Lady Niniel’s devotion extended no further than Galadriel and Celebrían. She tolerated Celeborn for being her lady’s husband, but she bore no love for any of his kin, which included the royal houses of both Woodland Realms. Oropher could only imagine how unpleasant Niniel would have made the already difficult journey.

 

“Your mother is here, Haldir,” Felith replied. “No doubt she will wish to reunite with you, and your brothers and your father, as soon as possible.”

 

Haldir’s pleasure at the prospect of seeing his mother after more than half a decade of war was somewhat ruined by a grimace that he couldn’t quite hide. After quickly saluting Glorfindel and bowing to the King and Queen, he rushed off muttering under his breath about making sure that his tent was tidy and Rúmil’s boots were polished. There was neither time, nor space in Oropher’s head, for him to feel much sympathy for Haldir. As the Lórien warrior drifted from his mind, he mounted Noril and put his hand down to help Felith up. She settled in front of him, and he took the reins from Glorfindel with a silent nod of gratitude to him, before turning Noril back towards the Greenwood war camp.

 

Neither ellyn nor mortal men had the monopoly on the war. Oropher had more female warriors in his military, and more female non-combatants, than any of the other commanders mortal or immortal, but they were still greatly outnumbered. He was also aware that a number of women dwelt in King Elendil’s camp for the ‘morale of the men’. He still remembered the first time his son had ever encountered one of these women. Ever inquisitive, Thranduil had politely asked her what line of work she was in, for though he hadn’t said as much, it had been clear that the woman was neither warrior nor healer. She had said something that had made his poor elfling blush all the way to the points of his ears, while Prince Isildur and Glorfindel had both roared with laughter. Those had been better times. Still, despite the women who inhabited the camps, people looked at Felith as Noril cantered through the makeshift streets of the tent cities. Those who didn’t recognise her gaped open-mouthed to see the King of Greenwood astride a horse with an elleth, and those who did know her stared only for a moment before whooping and hugging their fellows with cries of “the Queen has come!”

 

It was quieter around the healing tents, and no whooping came from Lieutenant Carthalon or Lieutenant Angtheldir who were standing guard outside Thranduil’s tent. They allowed themselves to appear shocked only for the briefest of moments before covering it with sharp salutes as their King and Queen dismounted. Oropher nodded to them, and Felith smiled, but her smile faded swiftly as she stared at the canvas door tied back with a sash to let light in. “Is…is it awful inside?” she asked, sounding as though she was trying not to be afraid of the answer.

 

“No,” Oropher quickly promised her. “Thranduil has the appearance of one who is in a deep sleep.”

 

Felith nodded, but she still had to take a deep breath to prepare herself before stepping into the tent. Thranduil hadn’t been left on his own since the moment he had fallen into darkness. Mostly it was for his own welfare, but also it was that nobody wanted to think of him being alone. Sitting at his bedside now was Linwë, and the burgundy haired young warrior was quietly reading a book aloud to his gwador. He glanced up when he sensed that they were no longer alone, and he looked to Oropher first of all, both eager and anxious to hear what had been discussed at the meeting. A double take followed as his mind caught up with what he was seeing. He stood quickly, clutching the book, but he didn’t speak. Felith wasn’t ready to hear him yet. Her eyes were fixed on her son lying unconscious in the bed, his golden hair spread out around him and dark lashes resting on pale cheeks. He really did look as if he was sleeping, Oropher thought wistfully.

 

All was silent within the tent until Felith slowly let out the breath that she had been holding. She looked then upon her son’s friend, and held out her hands to him. “Linwë,” she said softly. He put the book down and went to her, and she drew him close with her hands wrapped around his. “I know what you did last year.”

 

“Thranduil would have done the same for me,” Linwë replied steadily.

 

“Yes. But it was you who walked into darkness for him,” Felith said. “The debt that Oropher and I owe to you, and to Fileg, Veassen, and the sons of Isildur, can never be repaid though we will try.”

 

“We ask for nothing.” Linwë hesitated, and almost against his will he glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “But if he was to wake and be well, that would be the greatest gift of all.”

 

Felith nodded in understanding, and she gently kissed the young elf on the cheek before releasing his hands and stepping past him. Standing by the door, Oropher gave Linwë a quiet nod. He could tell by the light in the younger ellon’s jade green eyes that he had questions, but Linwë saved them and slipped away to give the King and Queen their privacy. The chair that he had occupied at the bedside was now Felith’s, and as she sat down she took her son’s hand and stroked his cheek. “Oh, Thranduil,” she whispered. Oropher could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Look at you. My poor boy. You will be well. You will. Nana is here now. I am going to look after you, I promise.”

 

“I will give you time with him, melethril,” Oropher said quietly.

 

“No.” Felith’s response was immediate as she looked up towards her husband. “No. I need you both.”

 

Secretly relieved, Oropher went forward to sit on the other side of the bed and take Thranduil’s hand. It didn’t feel as though only a few hours had passed since he had last sat there, keeping watch over his son. It could just as well have been days ago. One of life’s greatest mysteries was the passage of time, how the happiest moments flew by while the saddest of times seemed to last forever. That was why, when a small and unhappy elfling Thranduil had once petitioned Aran Oropher to make it law that Begetting Days last for three days and not one because they went _so_ fast after such a long and slow time looking forward to them, he had sympathised with his son. He had granted that petition, and though Thranduil’s whimsical but heartfelt request had never made it into law, Oropher thought that it had been the most fun council meeting his advisors and Circle of Elders had sat through in a while. And, ever the loving father, he had allowed that Begetting Day celebrations within the family might last longer than just one day. He had always found it difficult to deny his son.

 

“How have you endured twelve days of this?” Felith whispered.

 

She was staring into Thranduil’s face as if nothing else in the world existed, but Oropher knew it hadn’t been a rhetorical question. “I have had no choice.”

 

“And before,” Felith added, looking up and meeting his eyes. “How much worse was that?”

 

“It was…” Oropher let out a breath and shook his head, unable to finish the sentence. It hurt too much to remember the long months of Thranduil’s captivity. “You didn’t come,” he said instead. “Last year. You and Galadriel did not come in six months, but after twelve days now you are here.”

 

“I wanted to. More than anything, beloved, I wanted to,” Felith said, sounding haunted. “I _tried_ to. But the future I saw…”

 

Yes. Of course. Oropher silently berated himself for not realising, and sent a rush of wordless apology across his bond with his wife. Of course she would have come if she could, but Felith was descended from Daireth the Seer, whose prophecies had been legendary throughout Doriath. Her power of foresight had passed through the female line, mother to daughter, but not all of her descendants had used that power as it was intended. Her daughter Esteliel and her granddaughter Anneth had disdained their gifts, choosing to use them for nonsense tricks and the indulgence of young elves who wished to know the names of their true loves. Though Daireth had loved them both, she had unnamed them as her heirs. It was her great-granddaughter Maerwen, Felith’s mother, who had embraced the Gift and used it for its true purpose. It was she who had predicted the Fall of Doriath, but by then it had been too late. People had laughed at her. People had told her to save her prophecies and sell them for a penny on festival days, like her mother and her grandmother. Those same people had died by the swords of the Sons of Fëanor and their followers.

 

That had been the end of the Gift as far as Felith was concerned. Hundreds of elves had been killed in the slaughter, among them those she had loved most. The kingdom had fallen to flames and ruin despite the prophecy, so what good was it? She had thrown up the walls of her mind and blocked the Gift from manifesting in her. For two thousand years it had lain dormant until finally, tentatively, as a mother considering ways to keep her precious child safe from all the dangers of the world, she had welcomed it back. She wasn’t as strong as Daireth or Maerwen, but she had done her best to learn with Lady Galadriel and the priestesses of the Temple of Greenwood as her teachers. Oropher knew that Felith had never truly found peace with the Gift, not in the nine centuries that had passed since she had embraced it. There were some tragedies it had not prevented, some pains that had still come to pass, and the Queen found that a hard burden to bear.

 

“Yes, I wanted to come. But as I gave the orders to prepare for the journey, I saw the future and it was dark. I was a prisoner of the Dark Lord.” Felith’s head lifted, and her blue eyes blazed with anger. “I am of the line of Daireth, not Lúthien. Too powerful to pass unnoticed, but not powerful enough to stand alone against him. Sauron would know me once he had me, and through me he would learn much, secrets that would win him the war and cover all the world in darkness. I had to wait, and watch, until those who could pass unremarked – a band of six brave young warriors – had done so.”

 

“And now?” Oropher asked. “Do you believe our son can be saved?”

 

“Now…” Felith took a deep breath, and the light in her eyes faded. “Now, all is as it should be.”

 

Oropher nodded slowly. She hadn’t answered his question, really, and he suspected that she hadn’t shared all that was in her mind, but it would do for now. “When will it be done?”

 

“Tonight. It will take great strength, and Galadriel and I must be well rested. As must you.” Felith met Oropher’s eyes, and he was reminded of all the happier times when she had scolded him as only a wife could for working too hard or not taking enough rest. “How much have you slept of late?”

 

“I cannot say. It is a blur,” Oropher replied. “I do not count the hours, though even if I did there are sometimes no hours to count.”

 

“Then forgive me for sounding like a nursemaid, but you should sleep while you can,” Felith said gently. “You are strong, but I need you to be well.”

 

For the first time in twelve days, Oropher was struck by the sudden realisation that he could sleep. The elleth he loved was there, and she had come bearing something that had been slowly but surely draining from him with the passing of each day: hope. He gently set Thranduil’s hand down and rose to step around the bed to Felith. She tilted her chin up for a kiss, but Oropher found that he couldn’t step away from her after. His fingers lingered on hers, unwilling to fully separate.

 

“There is something I wish you to know,” he said quietly, as he understood what was holding him still. “This morning we met to formally discuss Thranduil’s care. Everyone was there. During the meeting, Prince Isildur suggested that he be allowed to pass away and wake one day in the West. I agreed with him. Not immediately, and not easily, but I did. It was a moment of despair and madness where I was not myself, but if it had not been for Glorfindel, and for Haldir alerting us of your coming, I fear I would have done something unforgivable.”

 

There was no anger or disappointment in Felith’s gaze as she rose to take Oropher’s hands and meet his eyes. “When I knew Thranduil was a prisoner of the Dark Lord, my mind went to the most evil of places and saw the worst things. There were times when I wished him dead, because that had to be better than the hell he was living. For a mother to wish death upon her own child…” She stopped, her breath catching, and Oropher saw the shadow of grief pass across her face. For a moment the Queen closed her eyes, and when she opened them they were loving even as they shone with tears. “I cannot blame you for anything you have said or done in the depths of your despair, my beloved. Do not look to me for censure, for you will find none here.”

 

Oropher drew Felith into his arms and held her tight against his chest, the waves of her golden hair soft against his cheek. He didn’t want to let go of her, because he didn’t understand how he had managed to be without her for six years. He wasn’t ready to feel his arms empty again, but she was pulling back from him. Reluctantly, he let her, and their eyes locked. They didn’t need words. They didn’t even need their bond. They both knew what the other needed. They glanced back at Thranduil, their gazes lingering on him, before quietly leaving together with fingers entwined.

 

In the sanctuary of the royal pavilion, their clothing fell in untidy piles on the floor and they touched each other as if it was their first time together. Felith’s body hadn’t changed, but Oropher’s had. He held his breath as she traced every not yet healed wound with gentle, delicate fingers; the nearly faded bruises on his shoulder where an arrow had slammed into his armour, the once scarlet but now pale pink weal on his upper arm from the orc commander who had tried to pull him from his horse with the flick of a bullwhip, the scar across the hard planes of his chest from the kiss of an Easterling’s curved blade. Nobody had ever touched his battle wounds like that. Nestorion touched them with the clever hands of a healer, and Thranduil was known to poke at the bruises to try and decide what animal they looked like until Oropher sent him away with an irritable smack, but Felith’s touch somehow made them…not beautiful, but less ugly.

 

The intimacy that followed wasn’t a joyful thing, nor was it urgent or passionate. It was slow and gentle, a meeting of sad souls as mingled tears shone on their cheeks. There was pleasure in it, yes, but that was almost a secondary thing. At the heart of their joining was the strengthening of their bonds of love, and the healing that came with it. They fell asleep in each other’s arms after, and that was so normal and _right_ that they could just as easily have been in their bed at home. But when Oropher awoke hours later to the smell of dust and ash and smoke, and not the fragrant scent of evergreens and wildflowers, he knew instantly where he was. And he was alone, he realised, sitting up with a jolt. Felith was gone. Had she been there at all? He grabbed the pillow next to him and breathed in. Yes. Roses. She had been there. The relief that swept through him was immense. As he lowered the pillow and hugged it to his chest, he noticed that he had dislodged a scrap of paper. He picked it up from where it had fallen amongst the bedcovers, and read silently.

 

_Beloved,_

_Come to the healing tents one hour before midnight. We will save him together._

_Felith_

Rising to wash and put his somewhat dishevelled hair to rights, Oropher reflected that he didn’t truly know what help he would be in bringing Thranduil back. It was likely he would just be there to lend strength to his son, and maybe to Felith, while she and Galadriel fought the darkness. He was willing to do anything, give anything, but if that were the only thing asked of him, he would trust in his wife and his older cousin Celeborn’s wife to know what was right. They were powerful women. A powerful woman had raised him, and she had left her indelible mark on him. It didn’t matter that he was the King of Greenwood, or that he was a warrior or even an ellon. In this, the ellith were better and they could do what he could not.

 

He changed back into the same blue-grey leggings and sapphire tunic he had first put on that morning. At home there were certain standards to maintain, and it had never been unusual for a member of the royal family to wear two or sometimes even three different outfits in a day depending on their duties. There were standards to maintain at war too, but when water was a precious commodity and laundry a luxury, even the King of the greatest woodland realm in Middle-earth had to make his clothes last. Oropher didn’t mind. He quite enjoyed the simplicity of one outfit per day. There would be plenty of sartorial-related fussing when he returned to Greenwood.

 

Through the open tent flap at the front of the pavilion, Oropher could see as he made his way to what had become the lounge area that it was dark outside. He had slept for hours, he marvelled; not just one hour, not just two hours of restless broken half-sleep, but hours of peaceful and dreamless _real_ sleep. He tried to ignore the guilt that quietly asked him how he had dared to sleep when his son was lying unconscious in a healing tent, but he was spared from having to fight with it by the appearance of Lord Halmir carrying a covered tray into the tent. “Impeccable timing, as always,” Oropher greeted the younger ellon after a glance at the clock told him it was two hours before midnight. “Do you know, for the first time since this ordeal started, I believe I can eat whatever you have brought me without it tasting like ash.”

 

Halmir smiled at his friend and cousin by marriage. “I’m afraid it is ash. That’s all we have left.”

 

“Don’t joke about that,” Oropher said, though he couldn’t help laughing a little. “We are nearing the two year anniversary of The Great Hunger, and I have no desire for us to go back to every-other-day rations.”

 

On the tray that Halmir placed on the table was warm bread with a decent scraping of halfway melted butter, a cup of mint and berry tea, and a bowl of honeyed chicken broth. Oropher couldn’t help but smile at that. It was a meal from the earliest days of his childhood, which had started with Elu Thingol and Melian. It was what they had always ordered for their foster-son Lord Brandir when he had caught the childhood illnesses that their half-Maia daughter Princess Lúthien had never been susceptible to. Brandir had continued the tradition with his three daughters, the youngest of which had been Oropher’s mother. When he had got a chill from playing in the rain (usually hand in hand with his mother, it had to be said) or his head hurt after staying awake too late to study, Lady Neldiel had immediately called for honeyed chicken broth with a restorative fruit tea and a comforting slab of warm crusty bread. Oropher didn’t know if the meal really did have healing properties, but it had always made him feel better and stronger, and he believed in it enough to have given it to his own son many times before.

 

“I am happy to see you in good spirits,” Halmir said warmly.

 

“And I am happy to be in good spirits, though a small part of my mind tells me it is premature to smile or laugh before Thranduil wakes,” Oropher admitted, breaking off some of the bread to dip into the broth. “It almost feels like bad luck.”

 

“I have great faith in Cousin Felith and Lady Galadriel,” Halmir replied. “I trust all will be well.”

 

Oropher trusted that too. Mostly. There was still that quiet but nagging voice in his head that reminded him not to celebrate too soon. “Did Lady Emlineth come?” he asked then, changing the subject to distract himself.

 

“No.” Halmir’s relief was palpable. “I miss her beyond belief, but I think none of us truly want our wives here. Bad enough that our sons must be.”

 

That was true. It had done Oropher the world of good to see Felith, but he wouldn’t have wanted her to come if there had been any other choice. “Indeed. And Aiwen?”

 

Halmir shook his head, and the expression on his face was one of even greater relief. “I am both grateful and surprised that she did not come. Felith only brought Lady Ravennië with her.”

 

Now that he thought about it, Oropher too was surprised that Lady Aiwen hadn’t insisted on riding with Felith to be at Thranduil’s side. She was Fileg’s twin, and she had been a part of Thranduil’s close group of friends for almost as long as Linwë, Veassen, and her brother. At some point though, that had changed. Nobody was quite sure when Thranduil and Aiwen had started looking at each other differently, when their easy smiles had become shy and uncertain, when their eyes had begun lighting up at the mention of each other’s name. Nobody could pinpoint the moment that their familial and close friend-like love had changed, though all seemed to agree that it was Aiwen who had fallen first while Thranduil had taken longer to understand his feelings. Even before the war, he and Aiwen hadn’t been courting very openly, and he still blushed when someone asked him about her. Oropher thought that was particularly endearing, but it pleased him more than he could say to know that his son had found someone he could be truly happy with.

 

The King continued to make light conversation with Halmir throughout the late dinner, but as time passed he started to feel the familiar pit-in-the-stomach feeling of worry. He did have faith in his wife, and in Galadriel, but the closer it got to midnight the more anxious he felt, until finally the bread started yet again to taste like ashes in his mouth. He grimaced and pushed it away, trying to ignore the disappointment that flickered in Halmir’s eyes. “It was good while it lasted,” he jested lightly.

 

That at least provoked a small smile from Halmir, who added, “It will be good again.”

 

_It will be good again._ Oropher silently repeated that to himself like a mantra as he left the royal pavilion for the healing tents, with Captain Rhoven a few paces behind him as always. When he reached the private tent that had housed his son for the last twelve days – twelve and a half days now, he supposed – he found it busier than he had seen it since those earliest days when it had been a hive of activity. Still, it was to Thranduil that Oropher looked first of all, instinctively searching for the slow rise and fall of his son’s chest to confirm for his own peace of mind that Thranduil was still breathing. Only when he saw it did he release his own breath and look to Felith. She was pale, and she looked nervous now that midnight was drawing near, but she still smiled at him from across the tent as he went to her and took her briefly into his arms. He didn’t linger over the kiss that he gave her, for they were not alone. Elrond had the back of his hand against Thranduil’s brow, and he was gazing intently into the Prince’s face, while Nestorion was silently sorting through an array of medicinal herbs and oils in a mahogany chest. On the far side of the tent were Celeborn and Galadriel, standing together in such deep discussion that Oropher thought they likely hadn’t heard him arrive.

 

Before he could speak, Galadriel lightly rested her hand on Celeborn’s arm in silent communication and turned crystal blue eyes upon Oropher. She wore a sweeping gown of white, but to call it simply a white dress was not to do it justice. _Mithril_ glittered among the threads of the fitted sleeves that came to rest in points on the backs of her hands. Intricate silver metalwork decorated the bodice and shoulders, and the diaphanous layers of the skirt likely concealed blades strapped to her legs. Around her pale neck she wore a silver torc set with a white crystal. Smaller versions of that same crystal glittered in the strands of her silver-gold hair, set in pins that Oropher knew ended in deadly points. Lady Galadriel might be gowned, but she was as ready for battle as any warrior. The King of Greenwood bowed to her, and spoke quiet words of thanks for her coming.

 

“Are you afraid?” Galadriel asked intently.

 

Oropher could lie to himself if he needed to, but not to Galadriel, not when she pierced him with those eyes that seemed to see straight into his soul. “Yes.”

 

“Good. Fear makes you powerful, and we will harness that. We are not just saving your son, cousin. All who have fought these long years against the darkness will earn a reprieve after tonight, for Sauron will be a good deal weaker by the time we are finished with him.” Galadriel’s smile made Oropher’s blood run cold even as it sent a thrill of exhilaration through him. Her eyes glittered with hatred for the Dark Lord, and for the first time, Oropher believed without a shadow of doubt that the small alliance gathered there in the tent would be enough.

 

He matched Galadriel’s smile, the fell light of a vengeful father shone in his eyes. “Then let us begin.”


	6. Under Veiled Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight comes, and beneath the black skies of Mordor the fight between light and dark begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to thank my regular co-writer KayleeArafinwiel for her help with the first part of the ritual performed in this chapter, as it was inspired by a similar one in another of our stories that we have written together. So, thank you Kaylee!

The sweet scent of pure water lingered in the air, and Oropher turned from Galadriel’s smile to see Felith pouring a steady stream of crystal clear water from a silver pitcher into a bowl. He was used to seeing that bowl amongst the babbling brooks and wild roses of the Queen’s Garden at home, and seeing it here made him realise he had no idea what form the quest to save his son was going to take. Made of gleaming _mithril_ and set on the inside with aquamarines, the bowl was an heirloom of his wife’s twice great-grandmother Daireth the Seer. Lord Ulmo himself had blessed it beneath the stars at Cuiviénen when the Valar and their Maiar had appeared to the earliest Elves. Though Felith had waited a long time to finally embrace her gift of foresight and vision, the scrying bowl was one of the few family treasures that she had dragged from the ruins of Doriath. She had never been able to say whether she had rescued it purely for sentimental reasons or because she had known, deep down, that one day she would follow in the footsteps of her ancestresses.

 

Oropher remained where he was, curious but unwilling to disturb his wife, and Celeborn silently stepped forward to take Galadriel’s place as she swept closer to the bed. “Did you sleep?” the older ellon asked in low tones.

 

“Yes,” Oropher confirmed softly, watching as Elrond joined Felith and held out a small rosewood box to her, the lid open to reveal an assortment of precious stones resting on soft velvet.

 

“Glorfindel will be delighted to hear it,” Celeborn murmured.

 

That drew a reluctant smile from Oropher as Felith selected an aquamarine from the box and placed it so carefully in the centre of the bowl that the water barely rippled. She spoke words of invocation to Lord Ulmo over it, entreating the Lord of Waters to lend his aid in healing and strengthening her son. Her eyes were closed as she spoke. One might make the mistake of thinking that was out of respect or for concentration, but Oropher knew better and he suspected Galadriel did as well. Felith was nervous. Closed eyes meant she couldn’t see anyone, and if she couldn’t see anyone then nobody was there, and if nobody was there then she could stumble over her words and only she would know. That was what she had told her puzzled family as the soon-to-be-crowned Queen of Greenwood when she had practiced a speech in front of them with her eyes firmly shut.

 

The invocation finished, Felith opened her eyes and took a ruby from the box. This she placed carefully in the centre of Thranduil’s forehead. Apple-green chrysoprase followed, but she held it in her hand while Nestorion stepped forward to draw the bedcovers down to Thranduil’s waist and unlace his nightshirt to bare his chest. The healer used a silver blade to cut open the bandage wound around Thranduil’s abdomen. Oropher had seen the wound before, but every time he did he was struck by how _normal_ it looked. The skin around it was red, yes, but it didn’t smell foul as some poisoned wounds did. There was no blackening, no dying flesh, no leaking of fluid. The cut itself was clean and tidy, not jagged or even particularly ugly. It still appalled Oropher that something so nondescript had played a part in something so horrific.

 

He could tell that similar thoughts were going through Felith’s mind. As she placed the chrysoprase over the wound, her fingers lingered an inch above Thranduil’s reddened flesh as if she couldn’t believe that _this_ plain looking thing had caused such heartache. She started to dip her fingers down to touch it, and Oropher wanted to warn her that even the healers wore gloves when they treated it, but Galadriel got there first. She clamped her hand around the younger elleth’s wrist so sharply that it almost sounded like a slap. Felith gasped and Nestorion looked offended on behalf of his Queen, and even Elrond looked momentarily startled. Oropher drew a breath to reprimand his cousin by marriage, but in his peripheral vision he saw the barest shake of the head from Celeborn. It wasn’t the time to quarrel. They couldn’t afford distractions. With great effort, Oropher suppressed his instinct to leap to his wife’s defence and settled for sending a gentle wave of reassurance and encouragement to her across their marital bond.

 

Strengthened, Felith took a deep breath and accepted a pair of matching amethysts from Elrond as Galadriel released her wrist. The first she rested over Thranduil’s heart, and the second she pressed into his left hand and curled his fingers around it. “Oropher,” she directed quietly, looking up and meeting her husband’s eyes. “Hold his hand. Whatever happens, do not let him drop the stone.”

 

Oropher nodded silently and stepped around to the left side of the bed. He took Thranduil’s cold hand in his, feeling the amethyst between them, and watched Elrond retreat with the box of stones while Nestorion stepped forward with a white cloth and a small vial of oil in his hands. The uncorking of the vial released the sweet but heady smell of lavender into the tent. It reminded Oropher immediately of his great-grandmother Lady Aerdis, the wife of Lord Elmo the Steward of Doriath, around whom the scent had always lingered. Like so many of his family, Aerdis had fallen along with Doriath, but for a moment he saw a flash of sapphire eyes, river pearls, and a gentle smile. Oropher wondered if Celeborn too had been transported into the past, for he had been Aerdis’ eldest grandson, but the older ellon was stoic.

 

The oil had been poured into the cool water and gently swirled around while Oropher’s thoughts had drifted, and he saw Felith accepting the cloth from Nestorion and dampening it with the oil infused water. Careful not to dislodge the precious stones resting on Thranduil, she laved his brow and his torso with the cloth, making his skin glisten with oil. Oropher couldn’t look away from the gentle movements of Felith’s hands. Each stroke was so loving and tender. It didn’t matter what magic was going to be performed in the tent. In that moment, Felith was just a mother and that was a thing of beauty and magic all on its own.

 

Nestorion had stepped back to stand at the side of the tent with Elrond, the two healers on standby to attend to all those involved in the ceremony, and Felith placed the lavender oil cloth in Thranduil’s right hand. She held it there with her fingers wrapped around his. With her free hand she reached across him and took Oropher’s hand, their fingers entwined above the piece of chrysoprase. At the head of the bed, Celeborn and Galadriel had taken up similar positions. They stood opposite each other, Celeborn next to Felith and Galadriel next to Oropher. They had both placed one hand on Thranduil’s head to either side of the ruby, and they held each other’s free hands above the amethyst over his heart.

 

There was a meeting of eyes as Felith looked to Galadriel. The older elleth gave her a silent nod, just a single dip of her head, and Felith took a deep breath. “Lord Tulkas, Astaldo the Valiant, hear our prayers,” she began quietly. “Give our child, Thranduil Oropherion, the strength and courage to fight this battle. Lady Nessa, give our child the power to swiftly overcome this foe.”

 

The amethyst that Oropher was holding in Thranduil’s hand had become no warmer than any normal contact with skin would make it, but he realised that a gentle warmth was starting to spread through him not just from head to foot but deep inside him as well. It was a tingling, unusual but not entirely unpleasant. Though he didn’t stir, he shifted his gaze from Galadriel at his side to Celeborn standing opposite. They both stood perfectly still, eyes locked, neither of them giving any indication that they were feeling the same warmth as Oropher. He wondered if he was meant to be keeping his eyes on Felith as his older cousins were watching each other, but when he looked at his wife he saw that she was gazing past him at some distant point only she could see.

 

“Lord Irmo, Master of Dreams, give our child the strength to wake from this nightmare. Lady Estë, grant our child the power to heal his _fëa_ so he may sleep in peace.” The warmth that had enveloped Oropher’s body and soul shifted towards heat. He could feel that Felith’s hand in his was hot, but it was impossible to tell where the heat of his body ended and the heat of hers began. “Lord Oromë, Master of the Hunt, aid us in seeking our wandering child, Thranduil Oropherion, and returning him to his rightful place. Lady Vána, help us, for our child is so very young and precious to us. Let us bring him home.”

 

Oropher didn’t want the tears that came unbidden to his eyes, but Felith’s words summoned them. He couldn’t dash them away, and with nowhere to go they fell. Tears shone in Felith’s eyes too, but her voice was strong and getting stronger still as she invoked the Powers. “Lord Námo, bar your gates to our child. Remind him that he belongs not in your demesne, but here with us. Lady Vairë, Weaver of Arda, move your husband to pity. Four children are lost to us. Let not this last child’s fate be akin to his brothers and sisters.”

 

The heat intensified so much that every instinct told Oropher to escape from it, but he dared not let go of Felith or move away from Thranduil. At his side Galadriel was still and silent, but he could see the slightest tremor even in her hand as she and Celeborn held on to each other. Across from her, Celeborn was pale and his lips were pressed together. It was a test, Oropher thought, as Felith clung to him. It was a test, and he was damned well going to pass it. For Felith, for Thranduil, for every soul who had lost their life to the darkness and this Eru-forsaken war. He might feel as though his flesh was hot enough to burn, but it wasn’t, it was a temporary pain, and he refused to fail now.

 

“Lady Yavanna, Queen of Earth and Giver of Fruits, nourish our child with the life your province brings. Lord Aulë, give our child the strength of solid rock and the power of the flames of the forge.” The fire seemed to reach its zenith with searing flashes of heat, and Felith wavered unsteadily with a softly pained cry. Oropher tightened his grip on her hand, keeping her upright, sweat beading on his brow as if the very flames that Felith had spoken of were licking at him both inside and out. “Lady Nienna!” Felith gasped, “Lady Nienna, show us your compassion and give our child endurance that he might emerge victorious from this fight. Lord Ulmo, flush out this evil and sing our child’s spirit home with the cooling waters of life.”

 

The heat started to lessen, and Oropher found his energy draining as if it was being tapped and directed into Thranduil. He tried to send it all into his son, every last drop. He had already vowed to give it all if that was what it would take, but he couldn’t. It was as if another force was at work, controlling what he gave away and what he kept for himself. “Elbereth Gilthoniel, Lady Varda Star-kindler, have pity upon our child. Kindle again his spirit that he may live and be well,” Felith entreated. “Lord Manwë Súlimo, Wind-Lord and Elder King, hear your servants, and bestow your blessings upon our beloved child. Breathe life into him once more, Lord of the Breath of Arda, and let him walk no more in darkness. Give us back our child, we beg of you, Lords and Ladies of the West, and of the One who reigns above all thrones.”

 

Thranduil suddenly became enveloped in white light. It spread out from the gemstones placed around his body until it covered him entirely like a blanket. It wasn’t so bright that Oropher couldn’t look at it, but when he tried it was almost as if his gaze was forced to slide past it. The light pulsed, making flashes appear in his vision. He thought he saw black smoke spilling forth from the wound on Thranduil’s side and lingering on the edges of the white light, its head darting back and forth like a snake as it tried to return to where it had been clinging. Galadriel lifted her hand from Thranduil’s head and turned it, palm facing outwards, towards the tendrils of evil. The words she spoke sounded thick and muffled to Oropher, as if he was trapped under rushing water, but he swore he heard Galadriel commanding the smoke to go back to the darkness for it had no power there among the light.

 

An extra burst of light came forth from her hand and the smoke vanished as if it had never been. The light around Thranduil receded like a wave leaving the shore, and as Oropher’s vision cleared he saw that Galadriel’s hand was resting once more on his son’s head. He didn’t dare break the silence to ask if he had dreamed it. He didn’t dare move until he felt Felith slowly releasing her grip on him, and then he followed her lead. Their hands fell apart and they just stood there, breathing hard, regaining their equilibrium as Celeborn and Galadriel released each other as well.

 

“It is over.”

 

What did that mean, Oropher wanted to say, as Galadriel’s words broke the silence. It was over and it had worked? It was over but it hadn’t? It was over for now but they would need to do it again another time? As Felith took the lavender infused cloth from Thranduil’s hand and began to gather up the stones with unsteady fingers, Oropher looked properly at his son. The knife wound was still there, but the flesh around it was no longer a vivid red. The hand that Oropher held wasn’t cold and stiff, nor was it exuding the unnatural heat they had all felt during the ceremony. It was warm and relaxed. Thranduil’s face was pale, but not the deathly white of the last two weeks. He had the look of one who was weak and unwell, but to whom strength and health were returning.

 

“It _is_ over,” Oropher echoed wondrously. “But…”

 

“Patience. He will wake.” Elrond came forward to hold the back of his hand against Thranduil’s brow and listen to his heart, and what he felt and heard there made him smile. “His first sleep after hosting the darkness within him is important. His body can now finally start to repair the damage that was done to it both inside and out, and he will be stronger for this rest. When the sun awakes, so too will Thranduil.”

 

Oropher laughed out loud. Those words were the most beautiful he could have heard. Oh, he had imagined that the ceremony would end with Thranduil sitting up and flinging his arms around him, and he had pictured himself immediately being able to hold his son and hear the voice that he had missed so much, but none of that mattered. This was better. This was what Thranduil needed. He looked for Felith, and saw her quietly returning the stones to their box. Nestorion was at her side with his hand resting beneath her arm, and they were speaking softly together. It looked like the Master Healer was questioning the Queen, and she was dutifully reporting on her wellbeing. Satisfied that his wife’s health was being tended to – as if he would expect anything less from Nestorion – Oropher left them alone for the moment and turned instead to face Celeborn and Galadriel.

 

“Thank you, both of you,” he said, unsure what else he could possibly say to two elves who had helped to save his son’s life.

 

With a smile that didn’t quite hide his weariness, Celeborn pulled his younger cousin into a warm embrace. “Thranduil is beloved of us all. Your thanks are not necessary.”

 

There was never anything to be gained by pressing an issue when Celeborn had made his feelings about it clear, though Oropher still wanted them to know that he was grateful. When he was released from the hug, he stepped back and looked at Galadriel. “I thought I saw something – smoke, or some physical manifestation of the darkness. You raised your hand towards it and you said…” What had she said? Even now that memory was fading, Oropher realised, slipping through his fingers as if it was smoke itself. “You fought it off.”

 

“You sound uncertain,” Galadriel remarked lightly.

 

Oropher’s hesitation was enough time for Celeborn to speak. “We shall retire now, cousin,” he said, taking Galadriel’s hand. “It has been a tiring night for us all. You will send word to us in the morning?”

 

“I will,” Oropher agreed, automatically stepping back to let them pass. He watched them cross the tent, and as they reached the door Galadriel looked back over her shoulder and smiled at the King of Greenwood. It was one of her smiles that said a hundred words when she did not, and it told Oropher all he needed to know. He _had_ seen it. Whatever she had done, however she had done it, whichever powers she had called upon, it had happened. Deep in thought, he turned to Felith who had been released by Nestorion, and his musings on Galadriel were pushed aside in favour of his wife. He felt a rush of love for her. Needing her close, he went to her and drew her into his arms.

 

“You were perfect,” he whispered.

 

“I faltered,” Felith whispered back.

 

Oropher shook his head lovingly and kissed her. “You were perfect,” he said again. “And I am proud of you. Our son will live because of what you did here tonight.”

 

“Sunrise cannot come quickly enough,” Felith murmured.

 

There was no arguing with that. As Oropher held his wife close, she sighed softly and leaned against his chest for support. He felt exhausted and drained, and he had been but a conduit in the ceremony; he could only imagine how much more worn out Felith was. Resting his cheek against her soft hair, he watched Elrond quietly slip out of the tent with a couple of glass vials in his hand. Only Nestorion remained, and he had two of the same vials in his hand. He held them up as he approached the King and Queen. “What are those?” Oropher asked, not lifting his head.

 

“Restorative draughts,” Nestorion replied.

 

“Or sleeping potions?” Oropher asked sceptically.

 

The healer laughed at that. “You have seen me trick Thranduil into taking medicine too many times, aran-nín. I could hardly get away with pulling the same trick on you. No, these are simple draughts to restore the strength that you both expended tonight. Camomile, mint, lemon, a touch of honey…of course, I am not hopeful enough to ask you both to sleep,” he added offhandedly, as Oropher took both vials and gave one to Felith.

 

“Hopeful enough that you gave us a chance to fill in the pause you left there with a promise that of course we shall sleep,” Oropher retorted, his green eyes twinkling. He removed the stopper from the vial and drank the draught within. It tasted crisp and tart at first until the soothing aftertaste of honey came through. It wasn’t at all unpalatable, unlike some of the medicines his healers and herbalists were capable of concocting. Felith drank hers as well, but she didn’t care for camomile and grimaced slightly. Oropher returned the two empty vials to the sideboard before going to retrieve the chairs that had been moved from Thranduil’s bed. As Nestorion reluctantly came to help him move them back, he gripped his friend’s shoulder in gratitude. “Thank you.”

 

“I’m doing this for me, not you,” Nestorion retorted. “You are not at full strength, and I would rather you didn’t drop a chair on your foot which I then have to fix.”

 

“Not for the chairs,” Oropher said, cuffing the other elf’s shoulder. “For tonight.”

 

Nestorion lifted his hands dismissively. “I hardly had to do anything.”

 

“You were here and you would have done whatever was necessary. But we owe you our thanks for everything else you have done since this started.” Oropher rolled his eyes as the healer opened his mouth to protest that he had been doing nothing more than his job. Of course, they both knew that it was more than a job to Nestorion, but he had never been good at taking credit where it was due. “Just accept the damn praise, Nestorion,” Oropher commanded, only half in jest.

 

Amusement shone in the younger elf’s leafy green gaze. “As you say, aran-nín. Thank you.”

 

The two ellyn returned the chairs to Thranduil’s bedside, one on either side of it, and Felith kissed Nestorion on the cheek before sinking into the left-hand chair and taking Thranduil’s hand in hers. She looked exhausted, Oropher thought. He opened one of the cupboard doors in the sideboard and took out a warm blanket. After a moment of thought, he took one for himself too. Pretending not to notice Nestorion’s not-entirely discreet nod of approval, he focused on Felith’s tired but lovely smile as he wrapped the first blanket around her shoulders. “Rest,” he quietly told her.

 

“Do you wish for word to be taken to anyone?” Nestorion asked.

 

Oropher knew that beyond the elves who had been present for the healing ceremony, there were plenty of others who would have stayed up waiting for news. “Please, Nestorion. Vehiron and Herdir, Rochendil and Rochirion, Thranduil’s gwedyr and his guards, Glorfindel, Ereinion…oh, the usual lot. You’ll find Linwë and Veassen hanging around outside the healing tents. Have them take charge of the messages. With any luck, running around the camps will wear them out enough that they will be ready to fall asleep by the time they are done.”

 

“Very good,” Nestorion agreed. “But if Fileg is with them and out of bed with that broken ankle, I shall be slinging him over my shoulder and carrying him back to his tent myself.”

 

Privately, Oropher thought that would be something worth seeing. He sat down at the bedside and took his son’s hand with an assurance from Nestorion that he or Elrond would be back to check on Thranduil in an hour. Lavender oil still lingered in the air. Combined with the camomile and honey from the restorative draught it made Oropher feel pleasantly sleepy. Across from him, Felith had pulled her feet up onto the chair and she had one arm wrapped around her legs while her head was pillowed on her arm. Every time she blinked, her eyes were slower to open than the time before.

 

“If you need to sleep, then sleep,” Oropher said gently. “I will watch over you both.”

 

Felith looked up at him with a small smile, and she allowed her eyes to drift shut as she tucked her head back into the crook of her arm. It only took minutes for her breathing to become deep. Oropher was glad. He felt tired, but he had expended less energy than his wife. Besides, he had slept enough throughout the afternoon and evening that he didn’t think it would do him any harm to remain awake. In the end he was relieved that he did, for he saw every hourly visit from Elrond or Nestorion. He saw every one of their approving nods and all of the small smiles that said they were pleased with Thranduil’s condition. Oropher was no healer himself and he didn’t know much about the vital signs that the two healers kept a close eye on, but even he could see that his son’s sleep was a healing one and not the deathly stillness of the coma that had trapped him for two weeks.

 

As the hours passed, the occasional glance outside showed Oropher the changing of the sky as it went from relentless black to inky cobalt. The few brave stars that had not been veiled winked out of sight, and the moon slowly came to be replaced by a line of burnt orange on the horizon. Soon the sky was awash with orange and pink. Dust and ash danced in the light, and the strange cold of night gave way to the searing heat of day. Oropher discarded his blanket with a negligent wave of his hand, letting it fall to the floor. On the other side of the bed, Felith was stirring. He saw on her face the same discomfort that he and every other elf had struggled with when first they had come to war, but after six years of acclimatising, the contrasting temperatures were now little more than an irritation.

 

“It will pass,” Oropher said softly, as Felith hastily threw her blanket aside and fanned herself with one hand. He put Thranduil’s hand down on the bed and stood up, going to the sideboard where a pitcher of water stood. It was covered to keep dust out, and droplets of condensation ran down the outside. Water was always pleasantly cold in the morning when the coolness of night had chilled it. Oropher poured two cups, but as he turned back to take one of them to Felith, it fell immediately from his hand. He didn’t even notice as water spilled everywhere, splashing his boots. Blue eyes touched with silver were open, shifting slowly as they stared up at the ceiling while their owner tried to make sense of the world that he had come back to.

 

Thranduil was awake.


	7. The Long Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ceremony of the night before yields blessed results, but a long road yet lies ahead for Prince Thranduil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay in posting here. This (and a few subsequent chapters) were finished a while ago, but RL has thrown up a lot of obstacles for me over the last couple of months. Thank you to those still with this story!

It was the sound of Felith crying out in joyful disbelief, and not the cup hitting the floor with a solid thud, that shook Oropher from his frozen shock. He could see the shine of happy tears in his wife’s eyes as he ventured back to the bed, but even so he hardly dared to believe it. Tentatively, he ran his hand over Thranduil’s hair and down his cheek. He needed to feel something real and see for himself that it wasn’t just a hopeful dream. Thranduil didn’t stir at the touch, but his gaze moved, and father and son locked eyes. Oropher laughed, incredulous and delighted all at once. _He is awake. He is awake. He is awake._ His mind rejoiced, repeating it over and over as if to make up for all the dark thoughts of recent days.

 

The noise from within the tent had alerted outside attention, and Oropher looked up as the Captain of his guard stepped in. “Rhoven,” he said joyously. “Thranduil has woken. Fetch Nestorion or Elrond, quickly.”

 

The warrior smiled, saluting smartly, and Oropher felt as though he would never stop smiling as he looked back at Thranduil. But he did stop, because tears had pooled in his son’s eyes and leaked from the corners. “Oh…oh, Thranduil, no, don’t cry,” Oropher whispered, leaning down to press his brow against his beloved child’s. “Shhh. I know you are frightened. You are safe, laes-nín, I promise. Safe with Ada, and Nana is here too.”

 

Thranduil’s lips parted as he tried to speak, but no words came out. With every second he breathed harder and faster. Oropher realised that maybe he wouldn’t even be able to use his voice so soon after waking. “Lie still and take deep breaths, sweetness,” Felith said gently. It was the sort of voice she had used to lull a baby Thranduil to sleep or soothe him after he woke from a nightmare. “Deep breaths, yes, that’s right. Everything is good, Thranduil. Everything is fine. You’re fine. You’re safe.”

 

It broke Oropher’s heart to see fear in Thranduil’s eyes as the young elf looked up at Felith. Was Thranduil afraid because he had seen terrible things in the dark, or did he not understand why his mother was there at war…did he even know who his parents were, Oropher wondered. The thought made his stomach drop uncomfortably. Feeling numb, he took a step back from the bed as Nestorion strode into the tent. By Nestorion’s own admission, and Elrond’s as well, comas were difficult to understand. Healers were still learning about them, and there was much work yet to be done. Thranduil’s coma hadn’t even happened because of medical reasons; his had been induced by evil. What might that have done to his mind?

 

Oropher looked bleakly at the bed as Nestorion made short work of checking the Prince’s vital signs. Nestorion was speaking firmly and briskly to Thranduil as he worked, telling him in low no-nonsense terms exactly what had happened to him and what state he had been in. In that moment the two were not Nesta and his favourite elfling who he fondly called ‘Trouble’, but the consummate professional Master Healer Nestorion and his patient. Oropher didn’t know if Thranduil understood what Nestorion was telling him, but his breathing had slowed and he seemed less agitated though the fear remained in his eyes. Oropher hated seeing his son afraid. He would take it all if he could.

 

Suddenly, Oropher felt his hope flooding away to be replaced by frustration and even a touch of fear as his son’s eyes fluttered shut again. “No!” he snarled, sweeping towards the bed. He didn’t even know what he intended to do. Shake Thranduil back to consciousness? Order him to stay awake? He had no idea. He didn’t get that far, because Nestorion whirled around and put a hand flat against his chest.

 

“I need you to stop being a worried father and listen to me,” the healer commanded him. “What happened the last time you were unconscious?”

 

“I do not care, Nestorion!” Oropher growled, his eyes widening incredulously. “You go too far.”

 

“Perhaps, and you may order me whipped for it later if you must, but you ought to care and I know you remember,” Nestorion said calmly, keeping his hand where it was. “It was the night that the Easterlings killed our sentries with poisoned darts and ambushed the camps. You fought in hand-to-hand combat. One of them threw ash in your eyes. You stumbled, he hit you across the face with his shield and you went down. I was there after, and you told me what waking up had felt like for you. Tell me again.”

 

Yes, Oropher remembered. He remembered that night all too well. The surprise attack, which had happened five months into the Silent Hunter nightmare, had been the catalyst for his son’s rescue. Unknown to the King of Greenwood and the other leaders of the alliance, Thranduil’s sworn oath-brothers Linwë, Fileg, and Veassen had captured an injured Easterling during the confused aftermath of the attack. They had dragged him into the pavilion that the three of them – and sometimes Thranduil – shared. Their intention had been to discover information that might lead to the retrieval of their missing friend and Prince. A mere foot soldier, the Easterling hadn’t possessed what they had required, and so they had extracted other knowledge from him. They had learned to talk like him. They had learned his language. They had learned all he knew of the enemy camps, and the way that he handled his curved scimitar, and even the way that he fashioned his veils. Six weeks later, along with the sons of Isildur, the trio of young elves had mounted their rescue and they had succeeded. So of course, Oropher would always remember that night.

 

“It was like surfacing from too long underwater and breathing through a reed instead of taking a great breath of air,” he said abruptly to Nestorion.

 

“And how long had you been unconscious for?” Nestorion asked.

 

Oropher was a King who lowered his eyes to nobody, but the urge to look down in shame was almost overwhelming. With great effort he kept his gaze steady. “You put eight minutes in your report.”

 

Removing his hand from where it had lain against the other elf’s chest, Nestorion pointed over his shoulder to where Thranduil lay. “Thirteen days.”

 

“Fine,” Oropher said quietly.

 

There may have been more that Nestorion had intended to say to make his point, but he accepted his King’s word and stepped back to resume his duties. Oropher turned away. He tried to put himself in Thranduil’s place and couldn’t. That was the point, he supposed. He couldn’t do it because he had no idea what the last two weeks had been like for his son. He didn’t know if Thranduil had been in complete darkness or plagued by the worst of nightmares. He didn’t know if Thranduil had spent the entire time at the gates of Mandos waiting to be let in, or if the evil in his body had granted the Dark Lord access to his mind. Oropher rubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling ill. All of those were horrendous, and each as likely as the other.

 

When he had fought the sickness and regained control of his emotions, the King took a breath and turned back. He put his hand on Nestorion’s shoulder in apology. “This…is expected, then.”

 

“Very much so,” Nestorion confirmed, looking up with an encouraging smile. “Thranduil’s body is telling him he needs rest. His mind is telling him that he is not ready. I promise you, I am not worried.”

 

“How long must we wait for him to wake again?” Felith asked quietly.

 

“I cannot say,” Nestorion replied, sympathetic but as honest as ever. “He will wake when he is ready, and the same thing may happen again or it may not. All we can be is patient.”

 

Oropher thought that he had been patient for long enough, and he could tell by the disappointment in Felith’s deep blue eyes that it wasn’t the answer that she had wanted either. Still, it wasn’t Nestorion’s fault and nor was it Thranduil’s fault. It just _was_ and no amount of bitterness would change it. He quietly excused himself from the healing tent, leaving Felith at their son’s bedside while Nestorion completed his checks. On his way back to the royal pavilion, Oropher tried not to sound distracted when he replied to those who asked after Thranduil. The truth was that he was tired of such questions. He would answer them, because his son was loved and he didn’t take his people’s loyalty for granted, but he was so tired of being in a situation where people _had_ to ask how Thranduil was. He had expected the ritual of the night before to be a quick fix. It was galling now to see how naïve he had been.

 

When Oropher reached the pavilion, he was grateful but not surprised to find his Lord Steward and his Chief Advisor in his office. He could tell by the way they looked up and scanned his face that they were trying to decipher if it was good news or not. “Thranduil woke a while ago,” he said, watching Vehiron’s green eyes light up and a pleased smile appear on Herdir’s face. “He was frightened and upset, so he is sleeping again now. I have been told that is a good thing.”

 

“I should think so, gwador,” Herdir said warmly, stepping around the desk to embrace the other ellon. “They say rest is one of the greatest healers, do they not?”

 

“The famous they,” Oropher murmured, but he supposed his brother of the heart was right. He glanced at his desk as Herdir released him. It looked far more organised and neat than it did when Vehiron was sitting there by himself. “What do you need me to do?”

 

“We could do with you casting your eyes over the latest patrol reports, but you don’t have to do that here,” Herdir replied. “You can just as easily read them in the healing tent.”

 

“I shall do that,” Oropher agreed. He reached for the leather folder that his Chief Advisor had indicated, but Vehiron made a face and waved him away. “And what is wrong with you, muindor-laes?”

 

“Go and bathe,” the King’s younger brother replied. “Did you roll around in a lavender field?”

 

“Given the lack of lavender fields here, no,” Oropher retorted.

 

Vehiron wrinkled his nose and made another shooing motion with his hands. “It’s like five of Daernaneth Aerdis just walked in.”

 

With a roll of his eyes, Oropher conceded the point and went to his room at the back of the pavilion to scrub off the lingering smell of lavender – which, he thought, wasn’t anywhere near as bad as his brother had made out. He washed in the comfortable lukewarm water that Halmir had arranged for him, replacing lavender with citrus, but with nobody there to keep him distracted his thoughts drifted back to Thranduil as they invariably always did. He could never win this game. Being at Thranduil’s bedside made him restless and sad, but when he walked away for his own sanity it only took minutes for him to wish that he was back there again. He wondered what was happening in the healing tent, and the urge to go back to his child’s side started to overwhelm him.

 

Oropher emerged dressed in the fresh clothing that Halmir had set out – a sleeveless cherry-red tunic trimmed in gold with jet buttons down the front, over a light silk shirt in black with loose sleeves to keep him cool, and dark leggings. His hair was freshly washed, brushed, and braided, and partly tied back off his face with a round band of leather. A plate of honeyed toast and some fresh fruit had been set out in the lounge area, and the King took an apple and one slice of toast before going to join the other ellyn. “I thought honey was in short supply so we were only using it for medicinal purposes,” he remarked, savouring the gloriously rich taste as he bit into the toast.

 

“Galadriel and Felith passed the supply caravan from Greenwood on their way here. They paused long enough to collect fresh stores of willow bark and bandages, which the healers were extremely grateful for, and honey,” Herdir replied. “Luthavar should be here in a week with the rest of the replenishments. I have heard they include two dozen great barrels of pure water from the Greenwood _and_ blocks of ice.”

 

Oropher smiled to hear that, but Vehiron propped his chin in his hands with an unhappy sigh. “Imagine telling our First Age selves that one day we would be old enough to get excited about fresh water.”

 

“Speak for yourself.” The usually placid Herdir sounded offended. “We’re only just four thousand.”

 

“Oh, because _that_ makes me feel better,” Vehiron retorted.

 

“Stop grumbling and come with me to see your nephew,” Oropher said firmly. He finished his slice of toast and tucked the apple into his pocket for later. “Herdir, are you coming?”

 

“I will finish up here and visit him this evening. I don’t want to overwhelm our elfling,” Herdir replied. He watched his friend and King pick up the leather-bound military reports from the desk, before adding critically, “Take another piece of toast, gwador. An apple and a slice of bread is not a sufficient breakfast even if the bread does have honey on it.”

 

The royal siblings exchanged a glance as they headed out of the pavilion, though they each paused to dutifully take more toast from the plate. Oropher had only just turned eight when his little brother had been born. He had taken well to playing the role of big brother, but thanks to Herdir he had grown up knowing what it was like to have a big brother even though Herdir was just two years older. They had met when the then-small sons of Celepharn and Neldiel had tiptoed into the kitchens at their grandparents’ home to sneak biscuits. Herdir, being the son of the head baker, had helped them in their quest and from that point on the trio had become friends. So quickly had their friendship grown that Lady Neldiel had pleaded with Herdir’s father to serve her household. Oropher had never found out what Lord Brandir and Lady Siliveth had said to their youngest daughter about the loss of talented Master Cemendur from their employ, but he couldn’t imagine it had been anything pleasant for his poor mother.

 

“How fares Thranduil?”

 

Oropher was glad that he had finished the last of his toast as the voice cut unexpectedly into his thoughts. He turned to see Lady Galadriel standing a short distance away. She was clad in a sleeveless off-white dress with a belt of delicate gold chains around her waist. A diaphanous white cape hung from her shoulders, adorned with smaller chains where it covered her upper arms. Around each wrist she wore an intricate gold bracelet that wound from her hand all the way up to her elbow, and a matching gold necklace rested above her breasts. Her waist-length hair was loose, save for the strands that held a circlet of gold and silver leaves in place.

 

“Well enough, my lady,” Oropher replied. “He woke briefly after sunrise, but he was asleep again when I left him.”

 

Galadriel nodded, and ran her gaze over the King of Greenwood as if she was judging him. “You changed your clothes.”

 

“Yes,” Oropher agreed politely.

 

“One generally does that each day,” Vehiron added in the same tone.

 

The faint smile that Galadriel gave the younger elves suggested that if she wasn’t amused, she was at least not offended. “Inform the Queen that water shall be waiting for her when she returns to the royal pavilion at her earliest convenience, and fresh clothing which I shall assist her with.”

 

Oropher inclined his head to his cousin by marriage, and exchanged a look with his brother as Galadriel sent them on their way with a negligent wave of her hand. “I think she just dismissed me.”

 

“She would dismiss Eru Himself if He came down from wherever,” Vehiron replied.

 

“Hmm. But for future reference, can we not mouth off to Lady Galadriel?” Oropher asked.

 

“What?” His brother sounded shocked. “I’m a delight.”

 

“People who are not being particularly delightful say things like that,” Oropher remarked.

 

“Doesn’t Thranduil say it?” Vehiron mused.

 

“Yes,” Oropher said dryly. “When he is not being delightful.”

 

Vehiron grinned at that, and when they reached the healing tent he went straight to Felith to give her a hug and a brotherly kiss. Realising belatedly that this was likely the first time his brother had seen Felith since her arrival the previous morning, Oropher gave them a moment to greet each other while he looked at the bed. He felt a disappointed sort of resignation at the sight of his son still fast asleep. “No changes, melethril?”

 

“He woke again some time after you left,” Felith replied, giving Thranduil’s hair an absentminded stroke. “He was less agitated than before, yet still afraid and upset. Elrond had arrived by then, and he and Nestorion helped Thranduil to drink some water. They told him again what had happened to him.”

 

“Could he speak?” Oropher asked, unsure if he was hopeful of the answer or dreading it.

 

“He was husky, but he said a little. I asked him if he understood what had happened and he said _yes,_ ” Felith recalled. “He had more water, and then he looked straight at me and…well, it was odd. He asked me if I was dead too.”

 

“Odd?” Vehiron repeated incredulously. “It’s horrifying.”

 

Felith sighed and started to nod reluctantly, but then she stopped to give her brother-in-law a sideways glance. “Sometimes you barely know what day it is and that is just after a night’s sleep.”

 

“Fair,” Vehiron agreed. “Oh, you are in trouble.”

 

That made Felith blink. “I am?”

 

“Yes,” Vehiron said promptly, at the same time as Oropher sighed and said, “No.”

 

“Is it yes or no?” Felith asked warily.

 

The Lord Steward took a breath, but Oropher shot him a look that could be easily interpreted as ‘I am the King and your elder brother so I am speaking now’, before turning to give his wife what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Galadriel offered to have water drawn for you to freshen up, and to help you prepare for the day. Go, melethril. We will watch over Thranduil.”

 

Felith didn’t appear to be entirely reassured, but she nodded and leaned down to kiss Thranduil’s brow. “Offered?” Vehiron mouthed at his brother as the Queen crossed the tent.

 

“Stop being a pest,” Oropher whispered back.

 

“I’m just filling in for Thranduil until he can resume his normal duties.” Vehiron took the seat that Felith had vacated, and leaned in close to study his nephew’s face. A slow smile curved his lips. “This is wonderful, muindor. I know he is sleeping but even I can see that he is looking better.”

 

“He is,” Oropher agreed, smiling slightly. “I hope it will not be long before he is well enough to begin the exercises to return him to physical strength. I would also like him to have weekly sessions with a healer of his choosing. It will be important for him to talk about what he has gone through. Not just this, but the Silent Hunter days.” Oropher took his usual seat at the bedside and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms with a sigh. It wouldn’t surprise him if this ordeal had brought the trauma of captivity back to his son. “But he will not do those things here,” the King added. “At least not once he is able to travel. I intend to send him home as soon as possible.”

 

“Send him home?” Vehiron repeated, startled. “But-

 

“Thranduil is done here,” Oropher interjected firmly. “I have made my decision as his father and his King. I am prepared for it to be opposed by some, including the loud and all-knowing Glorfindel, so I would appreciate your support in this.”

 

“You have it, muindor, of course,” Vehiron said slowly. “But the loudest opposition of all will come from Thranduil. He will fight you on this.”

 

“He may fight as much as he likes, but one way or another he _will_ obey me,” Oropher replied.

 

There was nothing Vehiron could say to that. The brothers sat in silence, watching over Thranduil together, until Vehiron picked up a book from the bedside table. Oropher recognised it as the one that Linwë had been reading aloud to Thranduil the day before. It was tattered and dog-eared. He suspected that it had been passed around a hundred different warriors before ending up here. He had brought some of his own books to war, and other than a few which had sentimental value, he wouldn’t be able to say where any of them were now after six years of being lent around. He didn’t mind; he had borrowed some interesting and unusual books himself, including a book of princess tales that he had enjoyed more than he cared to admit.

 

While Vehiron read quietly to himself, Oropher opened the leather folder that he had collected from his desk. The first report was from Captain Elthoron, a tall golden-haired elf whose younger brother was a member of Thranduil’s guard – though that wasn’t the reason that Oropher had come to know him. For many years, Elthoron had been the lover of Oropher’s little cousin Luthavar, the Elder of Trade and Commerce. The two young ellyn weren’t entirely open about their relationship, at least not outside the family, but it was still the worst kept secret in the kingdom. Male or female, Oropher had never cared who Luthavar dallied with as long as he was content, safe, and it didn’t impact his ability to do his job well. But, Captain Elthoron seemed to bring him true peace and happiness. That was something which had been a long time coming for Luthavar.

 

Luthavar’s father, Oropher’s great-uncle Baralin, had been captured by servants of Sauron eighteen hundred years ago. Baralin’s wife had been enslaved alongside him, and they had been forced to produce children to swell the ranks of Sauron’s armies. Their last children were twin sons, and their birth had been the death of Anarien. The first twin had been as healthy as a child conceived in terror and born into darkness could be. Sauron’s servants had ripped him from Baralin’s arms. The second twin had been so small and sick that he hadn’t even cried. Believing the infant to be stillborn, Baralin’s jailers had laughed and jeered at him, and told him to keep the useless thing.

 

Baralin had named the child Amdirvel, which meant _dear hope_ , and under cover of darkness he had smuggled the weak baby out of Sauron’s fortress to a place where he might be found by human slavers leaving Mordor. Even life as a slave to humans would be better than life as Sauron’s slave. And perhaps, Amdirvel would stand a chance. That was what Baralin had told himself, as he had watched the slavers stealing his baby away. Baralin himself could not bear to try and escape with his son. Instead he had willingly walked back into hell, for he had five other children there.

 

The name _Amdirvel_ was lost, and eventually the slavers had sold the child to a group of travelling thieves and conmen who called themselves ‘the Clan’. They had named their elfling prize Lutha, and taught him how to steal for them and how to fight dirty. Worst of all, they had taught him that his beauty was a commodity and that he must sell his then-immature body to grown men and women for their pleasure. But they had never broken Lutha’s bright spirit, not even when they broke his body.

 

Before Lutha was fully grown, a rival band of criminals massacred the Clan. Lutha had escaped the fate of the only family he had ever known, only to find himself alone, with no place to call home and nobody to help him. Eventually, he had stumbled upon the Greenwood. Stealing and cheating to keep himself fed and clothed, because that was all he knew how to do, he had come to the attention of Greenwood’s Elders. They sentenced him to a judicial switching for his crimes, and ordered him to reside with them one by one while he learned the ways of his people and found his way in life. Lutha lived with various Elders until finally he had reached Faelind, the Elder of the Law. The cold and aloof magistrate had slowly allowed the young elf into his heart, before in time formally adopting Lutha as his son. Faelind had renamed him Luthanar, which the then not-yet-literate elfling had repeatedly misspelt as Luthavar. And so Luthavar he became.

 

Three centuries later, all of Luthavar’s brothers and sisters had died. Determined to save the youngest child who had been taken by slavers, Baralin escaped Mordor and travelled across Middle-earth as he had in happier days, but now always searching for his son. His journey finally took him to Greenwood, where he and Luthavar had been reunited. The wary suspicion between Luthavar’s adoptive father Faelind and his birth father Baralin had grown into friendship and brotherhood, and to this day the two remained his fathers. Even before Oropher had learned that Luthavar was his cousin, the younger elf had been a loyal supporter of Greenwood’s new rulers. Luthavar had become not only an Elder whom Oropher respected despite his youth, but also a friend and confidant loved for himself and not merely through his being a kinsman. So, yes, the King wished his little cousin nothing but happiness after everything. If Captain Elthoron was the source of that happiness, then Oropher could do nothing but support them.

 

Suddenly, Thranduil awoke with a jolt that wrenched Oropher from his thoughts. His son let out a cry of fear that made him automatically close his fist around the papers in his hand, while Vehiron dropped the book that he had been reading. They both leaned towards the young warrior to comfort and soothe him, but Thranduil must have been seeing something other than the faces of his father and uncle. He cried out in frightened protest, and lashed out. His flailing arms were weak and heavy at first after days of only being moved by other elves, but fear gave him strength. While Oropher pulled back as a fist flew towards him, Vehiron instinctively put his arms up to protect his face. Thranduil lashed out again, and Oropher was horrified to see a stream of blood as his son’s nails raked down his brother’s arm.

 

“Muindor, get those scratches looked at,” he snapped after a moment, when he had recovered from his shock.

 

Vehiron stood with his hand wrapped around his bleeding forearm, looking stunned. “What about…should I send Nestorion?”

 

“Just go,” Oropher commanded.

 

Not bothering to watch to make sure that his brother obeyed him, Oropher stepped back from the bed to put a safe distance between him and his son. Thranduil was afraid of him. That hurt, but it was what it was, and nobody else was there to fix it. Every paternal instinct Oropher had told him to offer comfort, but when he pushed those to one side he thought that comfort wasn’t what Thranduil actually needed. In that moment, patience beat comfort so he did nothing. He just stood back and waited. Thranduil was no longer thrashing about or flailing, but he was shaking and breathing hard. His eyes were impossibly wide. The minutes ticked by and they slowly returned to normal. His breathing became even and steady. Oropher slowly moved closer to the bed so that he was just within Thranduil’s view, and watched as his son followed him with a wary gaze.

 

“Ada.”

 

Tears rushed into Oropher’s eyes. Whatever had happened, whatever else might happen, it didn’t matter in that moment. His child knew him. “Yes, Thranduil,” he whispered, going straight to his son. “I am here.”

 

Thranduil swallowed with great effort, and he released a few uncomfortable breaths before managing to say, “Water. Please.”

 

As Oropher went swiftly to the sideboard to pour water, he was half afraid that Thranduil would slip out of consciousness again and that those precious few moments were all he would have. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder to make sure that wasn’t going to happen. When he turned around again, Thranduil was still awake and blinking slowly up at the ceiling. Oropher sat back at the bedside and held the cup steady as he guided a thin reed tube between his son’s lips. It was such a normal everyday thing, but it delighted him more than he could say to see Thranduil drinking.

 

“Do you remember where you are?” he asked softly, setting the water aside when Thranduil pulled his head back.

 

The Prince didn’t answer at first. He breathed slowly, in and out, his eyes constantly moving as if he was searching for the answer. “War,” he said finally, sounding distant. “Nana was…she is…is not here?”

 

“No, Thranduil, your mother is here.” Oropher spoke firmly to keep his son’s attention on him. “She came from home to help you, and Lady Galadriel came too. Nana will be back soon.”

 

“Oh. I…I don’t sound like me.”

 

“You are a little husky, yes, but that is to be expected,” Oropher said sympathetically. “You just sound as though you have had a sore throat for a few days.”

 

Thranduil closed his eyes, but Oropher could tell from the way that he parted his lips and drew breath that he was trying to put something into words. “She said she liked my voice like this.”

 

“Who said that?” Oropher asked indulgently.

 

Thranduil opened his eyes again and blinked. “Nobody.”

 

Oropher decided to let that one go. Either his son was genuinely confused and talking nonsense, or Thranduil had realised that he was about to spill a secret about his blossoming romance with Aiwen. One was as likely as the other, Oropher thought fondly. “Can I get out?” Thranduil suddenly asked, distractedly.

 

“No, you cannot get out of bed, my ridiculous elfling, and I don’t think you could even if I allowed it,” Oropher said sternly. “But,” he relented after a moment, “I don’t suppose Nestorion will shout at me too much if I help you to sit up.” He moved to sit at the head of the bed by the pillows, and he slipped his hands underneath Thranduil’s arms from behind. It was no effort to lift the young elf into a sitting position, but he did it carefully and slowly in case it was uncomfortable for his son. “How is that?” he asked softly, guiding Thranduil to lean back against his chest. The Prince just nodded silently, getting his breath back.

 

“You will be up to full strength before long, laes-nín,” Oropher murmured. He wrapped one arm around Thranduil and gently stroked his son’s golden hair with his free hand. “Oh, ion muin nín, everyone has been so worried about you.”

 

“Everyone,” Thranduil repeated slowly. “Is…is everyone…alive?”

 

Oropher’s thoughts drifted to the two warriors from Thranduil’s unit who had died in that fateful battle two weeks ago, but he decided to keep that to himself for now. “There have been lives lost since you fell unconscious, laes-nín, but none among your family and closest friends,” he said instead. “Fileg has a broken ankle and Gelinnas got stung by a fire-wasp which made his nose look like a tomato for a day. Otherwise we are all well, and none of that is anything for you to worry about. You just sit here quietly with me. Yes?”

 

“Quietly,” Thranduil agreed.

 

“Good boy,” Oropher said softly, pressing a kiss to his son’s head. He closed his eyes then, breathing out slowly. He felt as though he had been waiting a lifetime for this moment. There were times that he hadn’t even believed that it would happen – at least not on this side of the Sea. The very real and physical feeling of his own beloved child in his arms made him want to weep. He turned his face into Thranduil’s hair, holding him close against his chest. Thranduil was obediently quiet, but every so often he took a deep breath as if he wanted to speak. Each time, he just slowly let it out again. Oropher didn’t mind. He was willing to be patient and wait for as long as it took. When Thranduil was ready, Oropher would be there.

 

Eventually, Vehiron returned to the tent. He froze just inside the doorway and his eyes widened at the sight of his nephew sitting up. “Thranduil!” he gasped.

 

The Prince’s eyes had been closed, but he opened them and looked across the tent. “Who’s Thranduil?”

 

Vehiron’s mouth fell open and he stared between his nephew and his brother for a moment before hastening towards the bed. “What… _what_?” he demanded, horrified.

 

“Got you,” Thranduil said with a weak smile.

 

“Oh, you horrible brat,” Vehiron scolded his nephew, though the relief on his face was palpable. “For a moment I truly thought…honestly, Thranduil, you really might have woken up not knowing yourself.”

 

“That was naughty, my elfling,” Oropher added in a murmur, though he was so happy that Thranduil was capable of making a joke that he didn’t have the heart to tell him off properly.

 

“It was, and the sooner Nestorion says you’re well enough to go over someone’s knee, the better,” Vehiron said.

 

“Did you not miss my teasing you?” Thranduil asked.

 

“You will never truly know how much we all missed you,” Vehiron replied seriously. “You are so very loved, nephew, and this has been such a difficult time. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have you back with us – even if the first thing out of your mouth to me was sass.”

 

Thranduil managed another smile, but the way that he swallowed with effort and grimaced uncomfortably told Oropher that he was thirsty again. The King helped him to drink some more water through the reed tube. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” Thranduil said when he could speak again. “You know I love you.”

 

“I do.” Vehiron cupped Thranduil’s cheek with his hand and gave him a loving look. “All I had hoped to see today were your eyes open. You have surpassed my expectations. I will come back to see you tomorrow when you are stronger, and we will talk more.”

 

Thranduil nodded to that, and he started to close his eyes and lean his head back against Oropher’s shoulder. “Uncle Vehiron,” he said suddenly, his eyes flying open. “What did you do?”

 

“Hmm?” The Lord Steward of Greenwood followed his nephew’s gaze to the bandage around his forearm. “Oh. I got too close to a feral creature.”

 

Oropher rolled his eyes and idly stroked Thranduil’s hair as his brother left the tent. He could tell from the way his son kept breathing in deeply that he wanted to say something, and he kept quiet to give Thranduil the chance to voice it. “It was me,” the Prince said finally. “I hurt Uncle Vehiron.”

 

There was a moment in which Oropher briefly entertained the thought of lying to spare Thranduil’s feelings, but his inherent sense of integrity won out. “You panicked when you woke up, and you caught Vehiron’s arm with your fingers and drew some blood,” he said, keeping his voice soft and steady, and most of all free from censure. “As you saw, Vehiron has had the injury tended to and he has suffered no serious harm. He was so happy to see you awake and sitting up that I think he didn’t even remember it until you mentioned it yourself.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Thranduil said quietly.

 

“And you may tell your uncle that if you wish, laes-nín, but neither he nor I are upset,” Oropher replied lovingly.

 

“Have I…” Thranduil stopped and swallowed. Oropher reached for the cup of water on the bedside table, but his son showed no interest in it. “Did I hurt anyone else?” Thranduil asked eventually.

 

“Oh, no, my elfling, you haven’t hurt anyone,” Oropher promised. “You survived something horrific and now you must recover. However that happens, whatever you feel, whatever you need, none of us are going to be upset with you. We are all here for you. And on that point, Thranduil…” The King leaned forward and gently tilted his son’s chin up so their eyes met. “I want you to remember that you may always talk to me about anything and without judgement. But if for any reason you do not wish to, I want you to at least confide in someone. Please do not keep anything hidden away. Will you do that?”

 

“Yes, Ada,” Thranduil replied softly. “I will.”

 

“Good,” Oropher murmured. “My good boy.”

 

As Thranduil turned his face against his father’s chest with a quiet sigh, Oropher held him tighter as if he was afraid of letting him go. Maybe he was a little afraid of that, he admitted to himself, but he didn’t think anyone could blame him for it. From the moment he had first held his infant son in his arms and looked into eyes of sapphire shot with silver, losing that little boy had become the thing that he feared most in the world. Thranduil wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was a compassionate and beloved Crown Prince, and a great young warrior who had a brilliant mind for strategy and leadership qualities that inspired loyalty in his soldiers. No, he wasn’t a little boy. But Oropher thought that he could still love and respect his son for the clever and talented young ellon he had become, while in his heart still holding on to the sweet elfling he had once carried on his shoulders. Thranduil was his, and he wasn’t letting him go.


	8. A Storm from the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil has awoken, but a storm is coming and Oropher faces more difficult choices.

For the first two days Thranduil mostly just slept. Sometimes he woke and remembered exactly where he was and what had happened. And sometimes, fear flickered in his eyes until soft words soothed him and reminded him that he was safe. He ate sparingly of the simple fare that he was brought, which suited the ‘little and often’ approach that the healers had employed. By the third day, he was being helped out of bed thrice daily to get his blood flowing, and he quietly suffered through the strengthening exercises that Elrond and Nestorion helped him with. That surprised nobody. He was desperate to return to the frontline of the war.

 

He had a steady stream of visitors. Celeborn came and held him close with a suspicious shine in his eyes, while Galadriel just gave Thranduil a small smile and said that she was pleased to see him awake. Lord Herdir brought his usual calm and gentle presence to the tent, and quietly read aloud until his nephew-by-love fell asleep. Talagan and Gelinnas, the eldest and youngest children of Oropher’s sister the Lady Calien, visited with notes of good wishes from the warriors who Thranduil served with. The High King of the Noldor came, too. Thranduil was grateful, but he complained to Elrond afterwards that Ereinion might have waited until he was wearing more than just a nightshirt. Glorfindel, when he had visited, had grabbed Thranduil into such a rough hug that Oropher had thought that it might spark apoplexy in Master Healer Nestorion. Isildur had come, and Thranduil had feigned sleep. His father had half-heartedly scolded him for that. Linwë and Veassen had also visited twice, but Thranduil had really been asleep each time. That had been disappointing for both him and his friends. And of course, often at his side was his devoted mother.

 

Now it was the fifth day. Wearing loose leggings and a comfortably light shirt over the bandage around his abdomen, Thranduil had been helped out to the space at the back of his healing tent. It was as shady and cool a place as one could find in the middle of Mordor. Sitting out there was the equivalent of being on his balcony at the palace in Greenwood. Except, the view was of a thousand tents under roiling black clouds instead of miles of lush woodland. And breathing in too deeply sometimes meant getting a mouthful of ash instead of pure forest air. And the only flowers in sight were a handful of blood-daises that were pretty to look at but only from a distance on account of their barbed petals. So really, it was nothing like being on the balcony at home, but it was all they had.

 

Oropher was immersed in a report from one of his captains regarding her discovery of a soldier whose occasional helping himself to extra rations had unearthed a larger offence of theft, while Thranduil rested quietly with his eyes closed. Felith stood behind their son’s chair with a carved box of gems and beads balanced on the back of it as she lovingly wove warrior braids and the more intricate royal braid into his hair. It was she who first noticed that they had company. Oropher looked up next, hearing the soft breath of his wife’s smile, and his gaze went to just inside the tent where two young elves stood. One of them he had expected to see. The other he had not, but he was pleased that Fileg was well enough to be up and walking even if it was with the aid of a crutch.

 

“Gwador?”

 

Thranduil opened his eyes and looked around with a gasp of delight as Fileg limped out with Veassen holding an arm around his waist. The Prince moved as if he was about to try and get up, but he had already done enough that day. His mother’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder reminded him of it. “Oh, gwador, we missed you so much,” Veassen breathed, releasing Fileg to lean down and wrap his arms around Thranduil in a tight hug. “We thought…we really thought…”

 

“I know, Vea,” Thranduil whispered back, gripping the other ellon’s tunic with clenched fists as he hugged him back. “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to say that,” Veassen said quietly. “Not to me.”

 

Oropher didn’t think that the young elf with the chestnut coloured hair was inclined to let go of Thranduil, but Veassen reluctantly stepped aside when Fileg poked him in the back with his crutch. “You bloody idiot, Thranduil,” Fileg said cheerfully.

 

Thranduil critically ran his gaze down to his cousin’s bandaged foot. “The same to you.”

 

Smiling widely, Fileg reached down and gripped Thranduil’s wrist in a firm warrior’s clasp. “It’s good to see you. Honestly, sharing the pavilion with just these two has been a nightmare. They have been driving me absolutely crazy wanting to get up and go see _you_ all the time.”

 

“Says the one who Healer Galad threatened to tie down,” Veassen said with a tearful laugh.

 

“We said we weren’t going to talk about that anymore,” Fileg whispered loudly.

 

Oropher smiled as his son laughed, but then he noticed Thranduil’s smile fade to be replaced by a flicker of concern. The young elf looked around and his gaze fell on the doorway into the tent. Linwë was standing there, hanging back, though his eyes were fixed on Thranduil. “Lin,” Thranduil ventured tentatively, sounding more unsure of himself than Oropher had heard him be for a couple of days.

 

Wordlessly, the eldest of the group of friends slowly walked forwards and knelt in front of Thranduil. He reached up with one hand to gently cup the Prince’s cheek, jade green eyes meeting Thranduil’s deep blue as Thranduil reached down to return the tender gesture. Linwë moved his hand around to the back of Thranduil’s head to guide it down until their foreheads touched, and Oropher saw the sparkle of tears on his cheeks. The King understood what they meant.

 

Veassen was the most sensitive of the young ellyn. Since the day that Thranduil had first been injured which now seemed so long ago, he had been as open about his feelings as he always was. The ever-bright Fileg had broken character to express his rage with a kick that he was still paying for. And Linwë, he had chosen stoicism as the coping mechanism to see him through his best friend not being there. Linwë had always been distant and aloof in the face of catastrophe. Even as an elfling. It didn’t mean he didn’t care. It just meant…well, that he _did_ care, Oropher supposed, and the tears only came when Linwë was ready for them. It was a wonder sometimes that he and Thranduil were the best of friends, for they were so different in so many ways. Yet somehow, they worked. They fit together like a pair of puzzle pieces.

 

“Fileg,” Oropher said softly, rising as Linwë and Thranduil drew back and smiled at each other. “Take my seat before you do yourself another injury.”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take the King’s seat,” Fileg protested half-heartedly as he sank down into the chair.

 

Veassen looked suitably appalled. “You _just_ sat down in it. I am so sorry, aran-nín. He has no manners.”

 

“You have enough for the both of you, Veassen,” Oropher replied fondly, which just made the young elf blush. The King looked then towards Linwë and Thranduil, and saw that his wife had relinquished the braiding of their son’s hair to Linwë. He caught her eye and a silent message passed between them. “We shall leave you four young ones to talk,” Oropher said, gazing at the group of friends. “Thranduil, remember that Nestorion is going to be here in an hour to check your wound and help you with strengthening exercises.”

 

“I remember,” Thranduil said dutifully.

 

“Your gwedyr may stay, but I expect you to apply yourself,” Oropher added, giving his son a no-nonsense look.

 

“I will make sure he does, aran-nín,” Linwë said, not looking up from the sapphire that he was threading onto Thranduil’s braid.

 

Oropher was certain of that. He touched Thranduil’s cheek in brief affection, and as he left with Felith he paused in the doorway to look back outside. While Linwë deftly plaited a warrior braid with Thranduil’s head tilted back like a content cat, Veassen had sat on the floor and was leaning his head against the Prince’s leg. Fileg was chatting animatedly in the chair that Oropher had given up. The King smiled. It pleased him to see the ellyn so happy. They deserved it, all of them, and he hoped that it lasted. He turned away to Felith waiting for him on the other side of the tent, and he went to her willingly as she held her hand out.

 

“What shall we do now?” she asked.

 

“Would you care to see the sights of Mordor, my lady?” Oropher replied lightly. “I recommend a spectacular geyser which shoots sulphuric water into the air every seventy-eight minutes. If you cover your nose just so, you only detect the slightest hint of rotting eggs.”

 

Felith wrinkled her nose doubtfully. “Is there anything less pungent?”

 

“You might enjoy the wildflowers. As long as you don’t get too close, of course.” Oropher ran his fingers across the back of his wife’s hand. “We wouldn’t want your skin to erupt in pus-filled boils.”

 

“Oropher!” Felith protested, laughing as she pulled her hand free and slapped his arm.

 

In the end they used their free time to visit some of the Greenwood elves who were under the care of the healers. It was something that Oropher liked to do when he had the time. He valued his people’s contribution to the war and the sacrifices that they had made to be there. It was important to him that they understood it. Other members of the royal family conducted such visits as well, including Thranduil, though Oropher knew that it was one of the things that had suffered over the last few weeks. The elves he and Felith met with were pleased to see him and speak to him, but even more delighted by the presence of their Queen. Oropher didn’t begrudge her that. He was a permanent presence in the war camp. Felith was not.

 

Most of the elves they met were warriors suffering from physical wounds, but that wasn’t always the case. They spoke to a cheerful blacksmith with big shoulders who had broken his hand in two places after distractedly hammering it instead of a breastplate. There was the cook recovering from heatstroke, the junior healer with ears so sunburnt they had blistered, and a Captain old enough to be Oropher and Felith’s father who had survived the Fall of Doriath and the War of Wrath only to reach breaking point in the Siege of Barad-dûr. They sat with him for twenty minutes. Felith held the warrior’s hand the whole time while he just stared at the ceiling and said nothing.

 

“Surely he cannot stay here,” Felith said to Oropher, as they walked away two hours after beginning their rounds.

 

“No. I believe Vehiron has already authorised for him to return home as soon as possible,” Oropher replied. “If Captain Celemehtar’s mind cannot be healed in Greenwood, he will have to be sent for healing in the West.”

 

“Such a pity,” Felith murmured. “He was always so strong.”

 

“War does not discriminate. And neither do diseases of the mind,” Oropher said.

 

The day was drawing to a close, and the oppressive afternoon heat had faded. It wasn’t exactly _pleasantly_ warm, because nothing in Mordor was pleasant, but it was comfortable. The King and Queen just had time to see Thranduil again before one of his healers would arrive with food and medicine, and to help him bathe and prepare for bed. It surely wouldn’t be long before his son would be well enough to move back to the royal pavilion, Oropher thought idly. Not, of course, that it would be a permanent thing. He was still of the mind that Thranduil should be sent back to Greenwood, but he had to admit that when he considered that option it was with less vehemence than a few days ago. Seeing Thranduil up and about, and getting stronger each day, made a difference.

 

The bell tent that had been Thranduil’s home for nearly three weeks now was empty, so Oropher and Felith walked straight through to the shady space at the back. It was cool out there now, and Thranduil was sitting alone with his arms wrapped around himself and his gaze fixed on some far distant point. “Laes-nín,” Felith said gently, getting his attention as she knelt next to his chair. “Your friends left?”

 

“Only just. Linwë and Veassen had to get ready for night patrol, and they didn’t trust Fileg to manage the walk back to their pavilion unaided,” Thranduil replied. “They were worried that he might fall down and crack his head open.”

 

“We wouldn’t want that,” Felith laughed.

 

“No,” Thranduil agreed with a fleeting smile. “Fileg is just the right level of annoying and chirpy. We don’t want to upset the balance.”

 

Oropher had been seeing Thranduil smile for nine hundred and ninety-two years. He knew his son’s smiles, and the one that he had just witnessed didn’t fool him. “What is wrong, Thranduil?”

 

“Preamble isn’t always a bad thing, Adar,” the Prince complained.

 

“Thranduil,” Oropher said firmly.

 

“Well, it isn’t. And since you asked, nothing is wrong,” Thranduil replied calmly.

 

“Did something happen during your session with Nestorion?” Felith asked, taking their son’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Or with your gwedyr?”

 

“I’m fine. Everything is fine. It’s fine,” Thranduil insisted.

 

“You said _fine_ three times,” Oropher observed. “So I am afraid I do not believe you.”

 

Thranduil didn’t pull his hand out of Felith’s, but he dropped his head down into his other hand with a deep sigh. “I asked Fileg how he injured his foot,” he began, slowly stroking the beads in his warrior braids. “Fileg said that I was to blame for it.”

 

“I can imagine how well Linwë took that. But, my elfling,” Felith said softly, “Fileg was just being Fileg. You know how he is. He likes a joke as much as you do.”

 

“Joking about something doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Thranduil replied. “And this is true. It was my fault.”

 

“It was not your fault,” Oropher interjected sternly, seating himself next to Thranduil. He took his son by the wrist, pulling Thranduil’s hand down from his head so the young elf couldn’t hide away. “You were part of a routine patrol that went wrong. You took no unnecessary risks. You pulled no foolish stunts. You did it all the _right_ way and I have heard nothing but good about your conduct as a warrior that day. I am proud of the way that you fought, Thranduil. You were injured in the line of duty. So were others. It happens. And as for Fileg, he didn’t have to kick a rock because he was upset. Nobody judges him for it. We have all done things we shouldn’t have when emotions run high. But he made that choice. It was nothing to do with you.”

 

“I’m not claiming responsibility for Fileg’s hurt foot or even for my injury,” Thranduil said. “But everything else that happened was because of me. Because of what I did. Because the poison clung to residual darkness from my captivity, which happened because…I’m not even saying it, we know why. That’s the whole point. It’s why I didn’t wake up for two weeks and why Naneth and Lady Galadriel had to come. That was _my_ fault. You can’t say any different, Ada.”

 

There was no denying the link between Thranduil’s torture in captivity and his darkness-induced coma. The latter would never have happened without the former. Not even his most loyal and devoted loved ones could say differently. And yet, Oropher knew that he must choose his words carefully. “Thranduil,” he began, quietly but clearly. “Your time as the Silent Hunter is a thing that happened. It is a part of your past. No amount of regret will ever change that. Do not misunderstand me, my elfling, and think I say that you must embrace it. I do not ask that of you. But it is something that will rear its head again and again, as it has now, and you must be prepared for that. By all means allow yourself a moment to feel whatever emotion you need to feel. Then let it go. Do not give _him_ any opening that he can crawl back through. Do not let him think that he can win. Whatever the outcome of this war, you are stronger than him, Thranduil. You have always been stronger, because you have love and light on your side. Let them burn brighter than anything else.”

 

Thranduil filled the silence that followed Oropher’s words with a shuddering breath. “I try, Ada,” he whispered.

 

“I know you do. And there is something else that I want you to know,” Oropher said, after a brief moment of consideration. “I understand why you did it.”

 

“You…” Doubt flickered across Thranduil’s face as he looked up and met his father’s gaze. “You understand?”

 

“Yes. I always knew that it was never for glory or valour, but in the months that followed I often asked _why_? What made him do it? What made him think it was right or safe?” Oropher said quietly. “Even after I got you back. _Especially_ after I got you back, because I finally had room in my head for more than just _how can I save my son?_ But then you were injured in battle, and again I was faced with the very real possibility of losing you. I experienced for myself that there is no rhyme or reason to the choices we make when we are traumatised, exhausted, and beyond hope. You were all of those things when you made the choices you did.”

 

“And stupid,” Thranduil said quietly.

 

Oropher touched his son’s cheek, catching a tear on his thumb and gently wiping it away. “Naïve, perhaps, and very young,” he replied softly. “You thought that you could make a difference. And you did for a time. After every reported attack by the Silent Hunter – by you – it seemed that luck was on our side. We executed some successful pushbacks in the siege, and we experienced some easy fights. The fear and dissent that you had spread through the enemy camps made the opposition careless and undisciplined. Our fatalities were fewer, our victories quicker.”

 

Thranduil looked down and shook his head with an unhappy sigh. “It doesn’t make what I did right.”

 

“No. But think back to how you felt when you saw the difference it was making,” Oropher prompted.

 

It took a while for Thranduil to speak. Oropher didn’t think that Thranduil was in what Felith referred to as a House of Elmo mood – which was her pointed way of reminding her husband that his side of the family was to blame for their child’s pride and stubbornness, an accusation which Oropher only half agreed with – so he stayed silent to give his son time and space. Thranduil had a lot to work back through in order to reach the pre-captivity days where he had still managed to maintain a grip on youth and innocence despite having been turned into a war veteran. The youth was still there and would be for years to come. But the innocence…Oropher wished that he could rescue it for his son.

 

“I felt that it was confirmation,” Thranduil said finally, speaking slowly. “Confirmation that I was doing the right thing.”

 

“And what did that give you?” Oropher asked softly.

 

“Hope,” Thranduil whispered.

 

“Hope,” Oropher agreed. “Hope is an addictive thing, especially when we think it is all gone. I have learned that through losing you, finding you, and nearly losing you again. Whilst I cannot countenance what you did, I can understand it. There is no blame from me.”

 

“Nor me,” Felith added lovingly. “You will forgive yourself in time, laes-nín.”

 

Thranduil breathed out slowly and nodded. Oropher didn’t think that his son quite believed Felith, but that was all right. It would come. Nestorion had always said that the best kind of healing took time, Oropher reflected, just as the Master Healer himself appeared in the doorway as if summoned by mere thought. The King was glad to see him. Emotional turmoil was just as tiring as physical exertion, and Thranduil had pushed himself hard on both counts that day. “Impeccable timing, Nestorion, as always,” Oropher said.

 

“I try my best, aran-nín,” Nestorion replied, being careful of the covered tray in his hands as he bowed slightly. “Are you ready for dinner, trouble?”

 

“That depends who made it,” Thranduil said.

 

He sounded more like himself, Oropher thought with relief, while Nestorion just laughed. Thranduil’s mood lightened throughout the evening, and it was a brighter demeanour and more real smile that greeted the King and Queen when they visited their son the next day. There was even laughter – real laughter, not the forced kind. It lifted Oropher’s spirits to see his child happy. The atmosphere in the Greenwood camp too was one of joy. The allied forces had held their position in the siege for one hundred and forty-four days – an auspicious number for the Elves - without successful pushback from the enemy. The supply caravan from home was due to arrive any day, bringing with it fresh food and water, healing supplies, and gifts and letters from loved ones left behind. And of course, the Greenwood’s popular and well loved Crown Prince was recovering. There was much to celebrate.

 

Oropher didn’t begrudge his people their celebrations. He encouraged it, trusting his Captains to maintain discipline. It wasn’t just experience that told him they should make the most of it, nor was it pessimism or suspicion. It was something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Like roiling black clouds that heralded a storm, he sensed that something was coming. Felith seemed not to agree with him; or at least, she told him that she’d had no visions to suggest that anything untoward was on its way. But, she acknowledged with a touch of frustration, that wasn’t to say that Oropher was wrong. Despite her hard work and her dedication, her gift of foresight was not as reliable as she deserved it to be.

 

Just when Oropher was considering whether voicing his concerns to Galadriel would be disloyal to Felith, he received a summons to attend the Greenwood command tent. A sense of resigned acceptance settled over him as he swept out of the royal pavilion with Captain Rhoven matching him stride for stride a couple of paces behind. This was it. Like the first clap of thunder after days of high pressure, the storm had arrived. And like the coming of a long awaited storm, it was almost a relief. Now that it was here, he could weather it. He paused for a moment outside the command tent, taking a breath, before stepping inside.

 

Lord Vehiron and General Rochendil were already present, and Oropher only spared the two of them a brief glance because his attention was captured by the third elf in the tent. This elf was tall and cloaked in colour shifting grey, the hood raised and the cowl wrapped around his face to hide it. Even knowing how cool those cloaks were, and how intensively trained his spies were, Oropher always marvelled at the fact that they could stand to be shrouded like that when it was so uncomfortably hot outside. All he could see of this elf was a lock of dark hair and the glitter of emerald eyes not unlike the ones that he and his brother had inherited from their father.

 

Oropher nodded to the elf. “Report.”

 

“We received intelligence in the night that a force from Rhûn marches to intercept the supply caravan from Greenwood,” the ellon said steadily.

 

“Bloody Easterlings, again,” Lord Vehiron said under his breath at the side of the tent.

 

The King ignored his brother and fixed his gaze on the spy. “The supply caravan is not without protection. Regardless, Elder Luthavar has been careful not to establish a recognisable pattern of travel. The Easterlings could not predict when they would be on the move.”

 

“They have spies just as we do,” the cloaked elf replied lazily. “Your spies are better. But theirs are passable.”

 

And sometimes passable was all it took, Oropher thought. “Your source,” he said. “Reliable?”

 

“Reliable enough.”

 

“Do you trust him?”

 

The spy’s green eyes gleamed. “I trust _her_ as much as I trust anyone.”

 

Oropher could just imagine the sardonic smile hidden behind the cowl. “The supply caravan is expected any day now,” he said, turning to Rochendil and Vehiron. “Have our scouts reported any sightings?”

 

“We likely interrupted you before you saw mention of it in your correspondence this morning, but a bird arrived late last night with word from Luthavar. He and his people were, at the time that he dispatched the bird, delayed on the road three day’s ride from Dagorlad,” Vehiron replied. “A damaged wheel on one of the water wagons, I believe, though I am unclear as to how it was damaged.”

 

Oropher understood what his brother hadn’t said. It could have been deliberate. It could just as easily have been accidental. Accidents happened on the road. Those water wagons had been back and forth between Mordor and Greenwood every few months for the last six years. They were sturdy and well built. Yes, but that didn’t make them infallible. A wheel could still come loose. A big enough rock would do it. A deliberately placed rock? But how would anyone know that the wagon would go over one particular rock? Oropher shook his head to clear it of the thoughts bouncing around inside. They couldn’t prove how the wagon had been damaged so it didn’t matter. He pushed it from his mind.

 

The water wagons were important, but they could afford to leave one at the side of the road if they had to. A single wagon certainly wouldn’t be worth losing much time over. Oropher knew his young cousin well enough to know that Luthavar would rather cut his losses than risk the rest of the goods, not to mention his life and those of the elves with him. And it _would_ be a risk to stop for longer than necessary. The allied forces tried their best to keep the road safe for travellers. Still, it remained the playground of thieves and brigands, and even servants of the Dark Lord who managed to escape through the mountains and make a run for it. So, Oropher reasoned, Luthavar might have allowed an hour or two for the wagon to be fixed but it shouldn’t have delayed the company by much. Certainly not enough to warrant sending word that they would be late.

 

“Did Luthavar say nothing else in his missive?” Oropher asked slowly.

 

“Nothing,” Vehiron replied. “Just that there was a problem with a water wagon.”

 

“A minute ago you said damage and now you say a problem,” Oropher said, turning sharply to look at his brother. “Which was it? Damage or a problem?”

 

Vehiron took a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the side as he brought the memory of the message to the front of his mind. “Damage. It was damage.”

 

In an ideal situation there would be time to verify the intelligence that the spy had brought, but there wasn’t time. _Time_ , Oropher thought distantly, repeating the word in his head. _Time. Timing._ The timing of the spy’s report and the delay to the supply caravan were too close together to be anything but interlinked, he realised. Ordering warriors away from the frontline of the war was never a risk that he took lightly, but this was too much of a coincidence. Surely it had to be worth it. They might get there and find that it was all one big false alarm, but at least Oropher would know that he had done all he could to protect his people.

 

“We will deploy forces.” Oropher paused then, lifting his head and looking towards the west corner of the tent as if he could hear the sound of distant bells on a breeze. “I shall lead them myself.”

 

General Rochendil’s only reaction was a double blink, but Captain Rhoven was so startled that he unfolded his arms and let them fall down to his sides. Even the spy did a double take. “I’m sorry…do you have sunstroke?” Lord Vehiron demanded.

 

“No,” Oropher said mildly.

 

“Then you misspoke or I misheard, because I _thought_ you said that you would lead the command yourself,” Vehiron said.

 

“Ah. Yes. I did.” Oropher turned his back on his incredulous brother to focus on the most trusted of his Generals. “Rochendil. Instruct Captain Elthoron to make ready with his warriors.”

 

“Captain Elthoron?” Rochendil repeated doubtfully. “You would not prefer to send someone less…involved?”

 

“Instruct Captain Elthoron, General,” Oropher repeated. He didn’t usually care for repeating a direct order, but he understood the hesitation from his loyal warrior. He also understood the long look that Rochendil exchanged with Rhoven before saluting and striding from the tent, and he understood the disbelieving look on Vehiron’s face as his brother stood right in front of him. Still, he decided to indulge the younger elf. “Yes, muindor?”

 

“Permission to tell you everything that is wrong with this,” Vehiron said tightly.

 

“Granted, I suppose,” Oropher conceded.

 

“Thank you. Firstly, regarding Captain Elthoron going off to rescue his not-so-secret lover. Conflict. Of. Interest.” Vehiron tapped each word off on his fingers. “Yes?”

 

Oropher nodded. That was fair. “Yes. But you won’t talk me out of it. It feels like the right thing to do.”

 

“Oh, how marvellously vague,” Vehiron said, with a surprising amount of acerbity. “Secondly, regarding _you_ racing off to lead the command of some heroic rescue mission…muindor, do I even have to finish this sentence?”

 

“No, you don’t have to tell me that the King of Greenwood shouldn’t be putting himself in that position,” Oropher replied. “I am well aware of that.”

 

“But what, it also feels like the right thing to do?” Vehiron asked.

 

“It does,” Oropher agreed.

 

The Lord Steward took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look. If this is because Lutha is with the supply caravan…”

 

“That has nothing to do with it,” Oropher interjected. He paused, considering. “At least, I don’t believe it does.”

 

“I don’t understand why you would take this upon yourself,” Vehiron said. “The breach of protocol notwithstanding, are you really going to ride away from your recently awoken son and your wife who you are lucky enough to have with you here?”

 

A shadow of regret passed across the King’s face. “I will ignore your attempt to guilt me into changing my mind, muindor-laes, but do not try it again.”

 

“Then, and I can’t believe you are making me say this,” Vehiron said, “I will tell Cousin Celeborn.”

 

Oropher thought about that just long enough for hope that he was rethinking his decision to shine in Vehiron’s eyes. “Fair enough,” he agreed, clapping a hand to his brother’s shoulder. He turned then to the Captain of his guard. “Rhoven, I can see from the way that you haven’t unclenched your jaw yet that you are displeased with this. Take what time you need to gather the rest of my guard. We will be departing as soon as Captain Elthoron and his warriors are ready to ride out.”

 

“Very well. If I may be so bold, aran-nín, I expect this behaviour from Prince Thranduil,” Rhoven remarked critically. “Not from you.”

 

“I quite agree,” Oropher murmured, vaguely aware of Rhoven leaving the tent as he turned his gaze upon the spy. “You did well. Go now. Take rest and refreshment before you return to your duties.”

 

Despite the dip of his head that the spy gave in obeisance to the King, he made no move to walk away. Instead he lingered there, his lazy confidence replaced by a wary sort of hesitation. “Might I ask how Prince Thranduil fares?” he ventured.

 

“He has much strength to regain, but it seems that he has suffered no long-term damage,” Oropher replied briefly. “He will be well.”

 

“Good,” the spy murmured.

 

Vehiron went to the ellon and put a hand on his shoulder to guide him from the tent. He stopped to speak to him over in the doorway. Their conversation was quiet enough that Oropher wouldn’t have been able to hear even if he hadn’t turned his thoughts inward to mentally prepare for everything that would need to be done before he rode out. There were five and a half things on the list by the time Vehiron returned to his side. “Discuss this with Celeborn if you must,” Oropher said, without giving his brother a chance to speak. “But I think that you will not find him as supportive as you might hope.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Vehiron asked dubiously.

 

There wasn’t time to stand around and talk, so Oropher gestured for his younger brother to follow him out of the tent and back towards the royal pavilion. “You and I both know that I would not ordinarily step away from command here to lead a rescue mission,” he said briskly. “Given that a beloved cousin is caught up in this matter, I might send you or a nephew on my behalf, but I would not go myself.”

 

“But?”

 

“ _But_ ,” Oropher replied, “I am not confident that the decisions I made in the command tent were my own.”

 

“That doesn’t make sense, muindor. And what that has to do with Celeborn, I don’t…” Vehiron narrowed his eyes in thought as he put the pieces of the puzzle together. “You think Galadriel put a thought into your mind.”

 

“Galadriel. Or Felith.” The green silk of the royal pavilion came into view, and Oropher considered whether he would prefer to be manipulated by his wife or his cousin’s wife. He decided then that he wasn’t sure of the answer. He didn’t feel comfortable with either option. Filing the dilemma under something to be debated at a later time, he strode through the pavilion to his room at the back, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He didn’t have to tell his brother what to do. Vehiron wasn’t as skilful or deft an attendant as Halmir, but he knew what needed to be done, and he saw to preparing the King’s armour and weapons as Oropher changed his clothes.

 

When Oropher emerged from the pavilion, he was dressed for battle. Silver pauldrons shaped like evergreen leaves covered his shoulders and upper arms, while his leaf-and-vine engraved vambraces protected his wrists. He wore no breastplate, but hidden beneath his silver-grey shirt and tunic of green and gold, he wore a light vest of _mithril_. He carried his sword at his waist, the hilt set with moonstones, opals, and sapphires, and pearls from the river that flowed through his realm. He and Thranduil had found the pearls themselves on a camping trip, where for a few days they had been allowed to just be father and son.

 

The horn that heralded an imminent departure had not yet sounded. There was still time. Entrusting the final preparations to his brother, Oropher went straight to the healing tent that he would have visited anyway if the day had gone according to plan. As he strode through to the back and emerged on the other side, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of Thranduil using a wooden practice sword to parry a blow from the practice sword that Felith was wielding. “Did Nestorion countenance this?” the King asked neutrally.

 

“He allowed me to practice for fifteen minutes,” Thranduil replied, keeping hold of his focus long enough to knock his mother’s sword out of her hand. Oropher could tell from the way that the young warrior puffed his cheeks out that he was annoyed with his performance, though the last half a minute had seemed fine. Thranduil turned to complain to his father about whatever misstep he had made, but he didn’t get that far. “You’re armed,” he said, startled.

 

“We believe the supply caravan on its way here from home is under threat of attack from the east,” Oropher explained briefly. He slid his gaze towards Felith, but she didn’t react to his words. “There has been no time to verify the information, but it is reliable enough that it warrants action being taken. I am riding out with Captain Elthoron and his warriors.”

 

“You…you’re going? It should be me,” Thranduil said bleakly. “You would send me for something like this.”

 

“You would be one of my choices, but my decision to go is nothing to do with your current condition,” Oropher replied. “The two are entirely separate, I promise.”

 

The quiet sigh that preceded Thranduil’s nod told Oropher that his son didn’t believe him. “What can I do to help?” the Prince asked.

 

It was Oropher’s turn to sigh, but he managed to keep it internal. “It would please me more to know that you are minding your healers. There will be plenty of time for you to be put to work when you are better. And given that I walked in on you physically exerting yourself more than you have been allowed to since waking, I rather think that you would be better off resting when I leave here.”

 

“I can mind my healers and rest whilst not being a completely useless waste of space, Adar,” Thranduil snapped.

 

Oropher narrowed his eyes in parental disapproval. Taking his son by the upper arm, he turned him and landed a solid smack to the seat of his leggings. “Enough,” he said sharply.

 

“But-

 

“I said enough, elfling.” Oropher overrode Thranduil’s protests with word and deed; he let a second smack fall atop the first one. “I understand your feeling limited in what you can do right now, but you are not _useless._ I will not tolerate you saying so and I will not take that attitude from you. Do you understand me?”

 

Thranduil’s eyes flashed and darkened to the shade of a stormy sky in summer. Oropher thought for a moment that he had a fight on his hands, but then Thranduil exhaled and looked down in submission. Either he was willing to obey and listen, or just too tired to do anything else. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand you.”

 

Oropher tilted his son’s chin up and kissed the young warrior’s brow in forgiveness and benediction. “You have my permission to ask Herdir or Vehiron if there is anything that you may help them with, but remember your recovery is the priority. Is that fair?”

 

“Yes,” Thranduil repeated, accepting that that was the best he would get. “Be safe, Ada. And bring Lutha back with you. He’s annoying but I love him.”

 

“He will be thrilled to hear that you said so, my elfling,” Oropher laughed softly. As he drew Thranduil into a brief embrace, he caught Felith’s eye over their son’s head. He flicked his gaze towards the tent. She responded with a silent nod. The King watched his wife quietly slip inside, and he released Thranduil with a soft word of love and farewell before following Felith. “Was it you or Galadriel?” he asked, pulling down the silken door of the tent for privacy.

 

“You guessed,” Felith said reluctantly.

 

“Of course I guessed, Felith. I know my own mind,” Oropher replied. “And I know that this is not a choice I would ordinarily make.”

 

The Queen had the grace to lower her eyes. “It was Galadriel,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t know about the threat to the supply caravan until you did. Galadriel spoke in my mind moments before you had the thought that was not yours. She wished for me to send it to you, but I told her that she would have to do it herself. I think she did not take that well, but I couldn’t do it. Not to you.”

 

Oropher was more relieved than he had expected to be. That still meant his cousin by marriage had influenced his thoughts, which didn’t sit particularly well with him, but he reminded himself that Galadriel was an ally. She fought for the greater good as he did. She would have had her reasons. When he returned from helping Luthavar and his people would be time enough to find out those reasons for this bit of casual manipulation. “I didn’t think you would do it,” Oropher said out loud, drawing his wife close. “You have never used your powers to manipulate me. Well…apart from the one time that you did.”

 

“Oh, stop that,” Felith protested, reaching up to flick Oropher’s ear. “That was an accident when I was newly come into my powers. And in fairness, the curtains that you liked for our bedroom were hideous.”

 

“They were forest green,” Oropher said mildly.

 

“They looked mouldy,” Felith retorted.

 

Oropher wouldn’t have wanted to get into the nine hundred year old curtain debate even if there was time, so he silenced his beloved with a kiss. Judging by the way that Felith returned the kiss, it seemed she hadn’t wanted to talk about curtains either. Only when the sound of a horn echoed through the camp did Oropher pull back with a sigh. “That is Captain Elthoron’s signal. I must go.”

 

“Of course,” Felith said. “See you soon.”

 

“See you soon, she says,” Oropher muttered. “Is that it?”

 

“Do you want me to throw myself at your feet and beg you not to go?” Felith asked.

 

“No,” Oropher laughed. “It is just somewhat…casual.”

 

“Perhaps that is because I know our story does not end today,” Felith replied lightly.

 

Oropher accepted that with a smile and a final lingering kiss for his beloved. “Very well. In that case, melethril…I will see you soon.”


	9. Crossing the Border

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the mission to rescue Elder Luthavar from attack underway, Oropher seeks answers from his allies.

Eighty miles of desolation lay between the perimeter of the war camps and the garrisoned city of Minas Ithil to the west. It was a frustratingly slow and potentially fatal crossing, but so was every way out of Mordor. Yellow flags thrust into the ground indicated where it was rocky and treacherous. Blue said that it was one of the safer areas but caution should still be exercised, while green told a commander that he or she could order a faster pace for up to three miles. Red flags were for fissures that could break a horse’s leg or swallow a man or elf whole. Oropher’s nephew Lord Talagan had lost his grey stallion that way. Oropher’s loyal warrior Sergeant Danaeglir had died that way. Many a ghost story had been told around a campfire of the screams of the victims as they fell endlessly to their deaths.

 

That was why no leader put their faith entirely in the green flags. Well, that and the fact that the ground was so unpredictable that fresh cracks and splits appeared all the time, while the desert storms that sometimes sprang up out of nowhere wreaked havoc with the flags. If the storms didn’t knock them over completely, they covered the flags with thick dust that hid their true colours. On top of all that, servants of Sauron sneaking around the siege to try and escape had been known to swap the flags around – maybe as a last act of sabotage on behalf of their Master, or else to give themselves a better chance of freedom by confusing the allied soldiers who might track them down. Maintaining the accurate position of the flags was one of the responsibilities of whichever patrol was assigned to that area, but it was an infinite and ever-evolving task.

 

Oropher and his warriors had kept their horses at a steady canter for a mile and a half past the last green flag when Captain Elthoron raised his left fist in the air and then angled his fingers downwards to signal an imminent change in pace. That was roughly the distance that most warriors were willing to trust rather than the three miles promised by the green flags. As the company slowed their horses to a trot, and to a walk after another half mile, Oropher nodded to himself. Despite Elthoron’s personal connection to this quest and his emotional attachment to the one at the heart of it, he had been the right Captain to bring. He could be trusted not to let his fear for Luthavar override his professionalism or his duty of care to his warriors. Not, Oropher thought with a roll of his eyes, that _he_ could claim to be the one responsible for entrusting Elthoron with the command. He may have issued the order, but it was still Galadriel who had planted the thought in his mind for reasons that he assumed made sense to her.

 

No, Elthoron was a good choice however he had come to be there. He had to be impatient to reach Luthavar, but the only visible signs of it were the set of his jaw and a slight strain to his voice when he called commands back to his warriors. Oropher had a lot of time for Elthoron beyond caring for him in the way that he cared for all his people as their sovereign. He approved of Elthoron as a choice of companion for Luthavar, and he respected him as a Captain. The blond elf’s name had never appeared in any disciplinary report that crossed Oropher’s desk – a remarkable achievement for any young elf in the highly structured and disciplined Greenwood army – but it had cropped up a number of times in ways that had given Elthoron a reputation as a brilliant tactician and executor of military strategies, as well as the leader of one of the most successful companies in the army. Somehow, the bright young Captain managed to be almost universally respected by his elders and superiors despite his relative youth, and well liked by the majority of his subordinates – despite his ability to wield a strap with what Oropher had heard described as a dismaying level of strength and accuracy. Though there was a clear conflict of interest in Elthoron being part of the quest to bring aid to Lutha and the supply caravan, the King didn’t believe that he would rather have any other Captain there.

 

“Lutha has survived worse than this,” Oropher said quietly, breaking the silence when he noticed the younger elf looking skywards as if summoning strength from on high.

 

Elthoron took a deep breath, gathering himself as he lowered his cobalt eyes to gaze out towards the horizon. “He has at that, your Majesty. I just wish that he was better at avoiding trouble. He finds it even when he is not looking for it.”

 

“A family trait that he and Thranduil have in common,” Oropher said. “Whichever shared ancestor they inherited it from has much to answer for.”

 

“You do not know who passed it down?” Elthoron asked.

 

“I can only guess. Many of my ancestors were gone by the time I was born. Some were dead. Others were missing, taken by the Dark Hunter.” Growing up, the academic young Lord Oropher had desperately wished to know all the long-gone elves whose names he had only ever seen inscribed on the family tree, to learn about them from _them_ and not just from the memories of older relatives. Now as a father, Oropher felt lucky to have grown up knowing both his maternal and paternal grandparents as well as a handful of great-grandparents. That was more than his own son had ever had. The Fall of Doriath had robbed Thranduil of the chance to know Celepharn and Neldiel, and Istuion and Maerwen. They would have adored him.

 

“I have heard stories of Lady Calelil, my great-great-grandmother on my mother’s side. They say she had an eye for beauty and colour, that she loved to sing and explore the forest barefoot,” Oropher added, pulling himself back to the present. “Calelil and her husband Lord Aramath were ennobled for their services to Elu Thingol, but by all accounts that never stopped her climbing trees to rescue stranded animals.”

 

“She sounds like a blend of Lutha and the Prince,” Elthoron said.

 

“That she does. I have also heard from Lord Celeborn that my great-grandmother Lady Halloth, who I only ever knew as the epitome of dignity and decorum, was a tearaway in her younger days,” Oropher said. “I hope that he’s right. It makes her constant disapproval of my poor mother quite amusing.”

 

“Lord Baralin told me once that Lutha reminds him of your mother,” Elthoron ventured.

 

The King nodded to that. Lutha reminded him of his mother, too. So much so that in hindsight, he thought he should have realised in the earliest days of knowing the young Elder that they were related. Oropher’s thoughts drifted then to his great-uncle. He suspected that when Baralin had spoken of Neldiel, he’d had the same flash of pain on his face as Elthoron had when he’d mentioned Lutha. Looking intently at the warrior, Oropher caught his gaze. “Lutha is going to be fine.”

 

“Yes.” Elthoron took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his armoured shoulders rising and falling. “That is what I tell myself. But if I may speak plainly, your Majesty…”

 

“Please do,” Oropher allowed.

 

“I try to shut Lutha out of my mind,” Elthoron said quietly. “He creeps back into it because that’s the way he is, but if I don’t talk about him or think about him – and admittedly, I am failing on both counts – then it makes it easier for me to concentrate on what must be done to rescue him.”

 

That prompted a faint smile from Oropher. He wouldn’t have minded if Elthoron had bluntly told him to shut up about Lutha, but that wasn’t Elthoron’s way and so the King appreciated the younger elf’s diplomatic but obvious plea for a change of subject. Besides, Oropher thought ruefully, he should have known. How many times had he wished that people would stop talking about Thranduil because thinking of his then comatose son had been too painful? “Then we will not talk about Lutha,” was all Oropher said aloud to Elthoron. As they passed a blue flag, he cast about for a different topic and settled on what ought to be a safe one. “What did you have for dinner last night?”

 

“A baked potato with wilted lettuce leaves,” Elthoron said neutrally. “I enjoyed imagining it piled high with cheese and bits of bacon. May I ask what you had, aran-nín?”

 

“Chestnut soup and stale bread,” Oropher replied, carefully keeping the distaste from his voice. “How was your baked potato?”

 

“Ashy,” Elthoron said. “And your soup?”

 

Oropher exchanged a wry look with the blond warrior. “Bitter.” He was rewarded with a smile from Elthoron. It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. Sometimes that was all one could hope for.

 

Their slow crossing over the western reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth saw day turn to night, but they didn’t stop, not even when the shadowy Ephel Dúath loomed above them. There was only one way for a company such as theirs to pass through the mountains. The Nameless Pass was heavily guarded by King Elendil’s men, so Oropher didn’t fear an ambush so much as being struck by something from above. Every so often rocks and pieces of debris skittered down the mountainside, prompting the elves to raise their shields over their heads. While an occasional gasp or curse from a harried soldier peppered the air, Oropher bore it with a quiet stoicism matched by Captain Elthoron and Captain Rhoven. It was the night that made it worse. Every sound seemed amplified, every danger more likely to come to pass. It made the horses jumpy and the warriors on edge, but the four-hour journey would have been no less risky in daylight.

 

On the other side of the mountains the road led them to the city of Minas Ithil, her walls of white marble shining beneath the light of the moon. Oropher closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. This was the purest air he had breathed for years. Mordor was grey and black and brown with splashes of red, but if the air could be a colour then this would surely be green. He could smell the sweetness of flowers, the freshness of evergreen trees and woody pine needles. Even the clean scent of water from the river that flowed beneath the bridge and waterfalls that splashed down from the mountains. Oropher had become so used to the stagnant pools and sulphuric geysers of Mordor that it was like experiencing water for the first time. It wasn’t home, but it was the closest he had come to Greenwood since the start of the war. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from him, and all the hardships of the last few years were fading away. Around him, he could hear the soft breaths of the warriors as they drew it into themselves.

 

Minas Ithil, built by Isildur himself, had known a century of peace until a sudden attack from the east. That was the first anyone had known for sure of Sauron’s return to Middle-earth. He’d not held it for long. The men of Arnor and Gondor had retaken the city before the start of the war, driving the Dark Lord back to his stronghold in Mordor and scattering his creatures. Though reclaimed, Minas Ithil now only served a military purpose. The gleaming watchtower with its spire pointing to the clouds was manned every hour of every day to observe movements from Mordor. Supplies for the men of Elendil’s army passed through the city, and those of his warriors who required more healing than they could be given in the war camps were sent there to recover or die. And yet, as the horses clattered over the bridge and beneath the portcullis into the plaza, it was easy for Oropher to imagine how the city had been not so long ago. He could see where women would have shopped in the market with baskets on their arms, and where children had surely splashed in the fountains. Now there were no women or children. Just tired men. Minas Ithil was a city at war.

 

Oropher dismounted, and his eyes fell upon two men he’d not seen since their father had sent them away from the frontline three months before. “Prince Aratan, Prince Ciryon,” he greeted Isildur’s middle sons, clasping each of them by the arm as they came to greet him. Both young men were in their shirtsleeves given the late hour, but they each wore swords, and cloaks emblazoned in silver thread with the seven stars and white tree of their grandfather’s house.

 

“We did not look to see you here, Aran Oropher,” Aratan said, an unspoken question in his voice.

 

“Nor did I expect to be here,” the King replied. “I ask for an hour of your hospitality for the horses to be rested and watered.”

 

“You may have as many hours as you like,” Ciryon offered. “But why only one?”

 

“Food first, brother, questions later,” Aratan chided his younger sibling with a shake of his head that made his dark curls bounce. “Honestly, Ciryon. Where are your manners?”

 

“Buried beneath a mountain of curiosity, but fine, food first,” Ciryon agreed.

 

Oropher understood how precious a commodity food was in the middle of war. He could well imagine how dismayed any of his own quartermasters would be by the prospect of having to unexpectedly feed an extra company of soldiers. “Do you have supplies sufficient for all of my warriors?” he asked quietly. He would go without food if his guards and Elthoron’s warriors had to as well.

 

“We have enough,” Aratan promised.

 

“Very well,” Oropher agreed. “One hour only.”

 

While the warriors of Elthoron’s company were taken to the great hall to eat communally with the men, Oropher soon found himself stepping into the private parlour of an inn called The Seven Stars within the second circle of the city. He wondered how many of the drinking establishments in Minas Ithil had names that referenced stars or trees. Probably as many as there were in Greenwood with names like The Great Oak, The Winged Moon, and The Golden Queen, he reflected, as Aratan and Ciryon left some of their own men guarding the door. This allowed Rhoven to take the seat to Oropher’s right while Elthoron took the left, but the King knew without looking at Rhoven’s clenched jaw that the Captain of his guard would have been happier remaining in charge of security.

 

The scent of blackberry filled the air as Ciryon poured wine for them all. “Will you tell us what business you are about?” he asked. “Or is it some covert thing that you have to keep secret?”

 

Aratan rolled his eyes so hard that his head moved. “A covert mission led by the not-exactly-inconspicuous King of Greenwood the Great? I hardly think so, Ciryon, really.”

 

“Well, I don’t know,” Ciryon said defensively.

 

Oropher smiled to himself as the Princes of Men scowled at each other across the table. He had a soft spot for bickering brothers. “Well, Ciryon, you may be able to help. Our Elder Luthavar is currently somewhere between here and the Brown Lands, leading a supply caravan from home. It seems they were delayed on the road due to a damaged water wagon. Given the time that has passed since the bird was sent to us, they should be well on their way with much of Dagorlad now behind them, if not all of it. So, my first question. Have you had any recent sighting or word of Luthavar and his people?”

 

“They passed the first checkpoint after Dagorlad this morning,” Ciryon replied promptly. “I saw it noted in tonight’s patrol report.”

 

Hope dawned in Elthoron’s dark blue eyes, and Oropher exchanged a look of silent relief with Rhoven as the younger of the two Captains leaned forward to ask, “Then Luthavar is in Ithilien?”

 

“Only just, but yes,” Ciryon confirmed. “And the damaged water wagon…weren’t you saying something about that yesterday, brother?”

 

Aratan nodded, but he remained silent as the door to the parlour opened to admit a woman with greying curls, and a rosy-cheeked boy of eighteen, each of them wearing white aprons embroidered with seven stars. Together they set down food in front of the Princes of Men and their elven guests; a basket of thickly sliced bread that Oropher could smell had been warmed up, and plates of salmon accompanied by roasted potatoes and peppers. It was simple fare, but all of the food went well together and there wasn’t a stray speck of ash or dust anywhere to be seen. Oropher wouldn’t usually choose salmon, but this was tender, and glazed with a honey sauce that had a smoky-sweet hint of heather to it.

 

“So, the water wagon,” Aratan said, picking up the conversation as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “Three days ago our scouts were late returning to the checkpoint at the border of Dagorlad and North Ithilien. They reported coming across the supply caravan from Greenwood and stopping to help fix a broken wheel, which supports the legitimacy of Elder Luthavar’s message to you.” The Prince looked up from spreading butter on the slice of bread that he had taken from the basket. “You suspected it was not as it seemed?”

 

Oropher inclined his head, acknowledging the young man’s perceptiveness. Nothing in Lutha’s note had suggested that it had been written under duress. On its own there was nothing about it to raise concern or suspicion. But twinned with the report from the spy, the thought had crossed the King’s mind that there could be more to his young cousin’s missive than just a broken wheel on a water wagon. “You have told us two things that we are glad to hear,” Oropher said, looking intently at Isildur’s middle sons. “While they alleviate my fear over the other matter I must discuss with you, they do not entirely assuage it. So, Easterlings.”

 

“Oh, not while we’re eating,” Ciryon pleaded.

 

“It could be worse,” Aratan pointed out sensibly. “He could have said orcs.”

 

“All right, Easterlings,” Ciryon said with a reluctant wave of his fork. “What would you like to know about them?”

 

“I am here based on intelligence gathered by my spies which suggested that the supply caravan was under threat of attack from the east,” Oropher replied briefly. “This intelligence came at the same time as Elder Luthavar’s report of a delay. Taking that into account, along with his exposed position in the Brown Lands, I treated the threat as credible. I am now not so sure, given that he and his people have safely passed into Ithilien, though I realise that being within the borders of your land does not guarantee safety.”

 

Aratan and Ciryon exchanged a long look with each other. It was the elder of the brothers who spoke, while the younger slowly tore off a piece of bread and soaked up the heather honey on his plate. “I agree that the supply caravan would have been much more vulnerable before passing over the borders. As you know, the northern reaches of the Brown Lands are patrolled by Home Guards from Greenwood and Lórien. Our men cover the south, including Dagorlad. But it is still a vast area. With the best will in the world, we cannot have our eyes on every part of that land all the time. It’s not possible. We don’t have the resources.”

 

“Nor do we for the north,” Captain Rhoven said in his calm baritone. “We understand.”

 

“I would therefore expect an attack to be launched within that stretch of land,” Aratan continued, with a nod of thanks for Rhoven. “It is certainly where the majority of our skirmishes take place.”

 

“The majority,” Captain Elthoron repeated neutrally. “Not all?”

 

“Not all,” Aratan agreed reluctantly. “Our checkpoints and patrols at the border make it only difficult, not impossible, for the enemy to penetrate Ithilien from the north, and from the east there are small mountain passes connecting us to Mordor. North Ithilien has seen her share of bloodshed. So if you are asking us if Elder Luthavar and his people are somewhat safer here than in the Brown Lands, the answer is yes. If you are asking us if it is impossible for Elder Luthavar and his people to be ambushed, the answer is that I would expect it to have happened already _but_ that doesn’t mean it still can’t or won’t.”

 

Oropher and Rhoven didn’t react other than to silently lock eyes across the table, but Elthoron let out a slow and only-just-audible breath. “We’re sorry,” Ciryon offered. “I don’t think that was what you wanted to hear.”

 

“We wanted to hear the truth. You gave it to us,” Oropher replied. He set down his cutlery and used the tip of his fingers to slightly move his plate back. On either side of him, the two warriors rose as one and rested their hands on the hilts of their swords. “I believe we have heard enough,” the King concluded. “Captain Elthoron, go at once and ready your warriors.”

 

As the blond elf saluted and swept from the parlour, Aratan and Ciryon stood up as well. “It’s an easy two day ride to the border of North Ithilien, but your horses could do it in half that time,” Aratan said, falling into step with his brother at Oropher’s side as they and Rhoven followed the path that Elthoron had taken. “We will send out an additional patrol behind you so that if you need aid, it won’t be far away.”

 

“Thank you, my young friend and ally,” Oropher replied. “You have been a great help to us.”

 

The King, the Princes, and the Captain strode in silence along the second circle of the city down to the first, the path clear as men stepped out of their way to let them pass. The only sounds of their passage were their cloaks whipping in the soft night breeze and Aratan and Ciryon’s boots on the white stones. Only when they had turned down into the first circle did Ciryon take a breath. “Aran Oropher, before you leave…there’s something we have to say.”

 

“Say it,” Oropher replied, not breaking stride.

 

“Our brother has written to us often to keep us abreast of Prince Thranduil’s condition,” Ciryon said. “We were both so very happy to hear that he had woken. We _are_ happy. But Elendur also told us about the council meeting, which has weighed heavily on our minds.”

 

A glance at Aratan’s suddenly grim face told Oropher that the two brothers were as troubled as each other. He didn’t stop, but he slowed slightly in recognition of how deeply the young men felt about the matter. “It was a trying time, but all present at that meeting had my son’s best interests at heart however they presented themselves,” Oropher said. Had he forgiven Isildur, he wondered idly? He hadn’t thought about it that much since Felith’s arrival. His mind had been full of more important things. It still was. But on balance, he thought that while he wasn’t likely to invite the man to his pavilion for dinner any time soon, he had at least moved past Isildur’s suggestion that Thranduil be allowed to pass into the West.

 

“We are certain that they did,” Aratan was saying. “But we know what our father said to you and we wanted you to know how sorry we are. None of us would have stood with him.”

 

“Perhaps not, but you are his sons and you are loyal to him,” Oropher replied. “For what it is worth, I believe Prince Isildur to be a principled man of strong beliefs, unafraid to speak his mind. I can’t fault him for that. He and I have disagreed on some matters in the past, but we have also been in accord on much and no doubt will be again. There is no enmity between me and your father.”

 

“Thank Eru for that,” Ciryon muttered. “And Thranduil? Does he know?”

 

“He knows. His response was ‘fair enough, I would have suggested putting me down too,’” Oropher replied dryly.

 

Dismay replaced the relief that had passed across Ciryon’s face just a moment before. “Oh, no. I’m sure that’s not how our father meant it.”

 

They emerged into the plaza where Captain Elthoron, astride his chestnut gelding, was calling commands to his warriors as they mounted up. Rhoven slipped away to take charge of the King’s gleaming black stallion, and Oropher took the moment to turn to the young Princes and give them both a reassuring shoulder clasp. “I know that’s not how Isildur meant it. Thranduil knows too. And when you return from your duties here, it will not be to find your country at war with mine.”

 

“Good,” Ciryon laughed weakly. “You’d probably win.”

 

Oropher smiled slightly. “Is there anything else? I have a little cousin to rescue, and I’m not sure that Captain Elthoron will wait for me.”

 

“Go, Aran Oropher,” Aratan said. “And good luck.”

 

The moon was still high in the sky when the elves rode out from Minas Ithil and for the next three hours until they drew level with Cair Andros off to the west. As the blue and black of night gave way to the burnt orange and purple-pink of day, early morning sunlight glinted off Oropher’s armour. Flanked to either side by Captain Rhoven and Captain Elthoron, the three members of the King’s Guard rode behind them in an inverted V formation. Bringing up the rear of the guards were the warriors of Elthoron’s company; three sergeants, six lieutenants, fourteen officers of senior and junior rank, and one hundred and twenty soldiers. Green and gold banners bearing Oropher’s mighty oak tree beneath a winged moon streamed over their heads. The percussive beat of thundering hooves made clouds of pollen and mountain dust rise into the air. There was nothing secret or silent about their passage. This was no covert quest. If this was indeed the urgent rescue mission that it had been painted as, then Oropher was of the mind to let his enemies know. Let them know before they died that the King and his warriors were coming for them.


	10. Questions, Answers, and More Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher and his warriors reach the supply caravan, and find that not all is as it should be.

A silver-crested moon bird whistled somewhere in the trees. The elves shouldn’t have been able to hear a silver-crested moon bird, because those were native to the Greenwood. Elthoron raised his hands to his lips and whistled back, and the moon bird gave an answering call that made Oropher close his eyes in a moment of silent relief. They were near. For the first time since riding away from the war camps, because even his night-time visit with Prince Aratan and Prince Ciryon had only gone a short way to putting his mind at rest, he allowed himself to believe that this mission might just have a happy ending.

 

It was some twenty minutes after the perimeter guard’s bird call that they came upon the supply caravan. Oropher’s people had arranged their carts and wagons in a circle around the campsite, using what they had to fortify it against outside attack. Between every two supply carts stood one of the massive water wagons with the barrels so big that laid on their side as they were on the wagons, a full grown elf would be able to stand inside. They had been something of a novelty at first. So much so that their creator, an ancient and surly ellon named Master Thúlon, had set one permanently outside his workshop so that curious individuals could try it for themselves without bothering him.

 

Captain Rhoven to Oropher’s right nodded thoughtfully to himself and murmured quiet approval of the camp’s defence system as they rode through one of two guarded openings large enough to admit riders. It took them straight into the heart of the camp. Six dozen unharnessed and groomed horses grazed in a big roped off area to the left, while the rest of the space was for the elves. Some were busy putting tents up, and some to tending campfires and seeing to the cooking of dinner, while others not rostered on duty sat at ease – reading, writing, playing cards, or laughing with their friends. The one thing that they all shared were their reactions to the sight of their King and his warriors. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare incredulously.

 

“We appear to have caused a stir,” Rhoven said dryly, as a stunned elleth with auburn hair in one thick braid poured water over her own feet instead of into the mug that her friend was holding out to her.

 

Oropher laughed and dismounted, beyond relieved to see his people safe and well. He acknowledged their startled bows and curtseys with a fond nod as he scanned their number for any glimpse of his cousin. Lutha was a noticeable presence when he was where he was meant to be, and a noticeable absence when he was not. Still, Oropher wasn’t concerned as he caught no sight of the young elf, though he could feel the carefully controlled worry pulsing from Elthoron. The supply caravan was safe and well. His people were setting up beds for the night and starting to cook dinner. That meant Lutha had to be well too.

 

“Aran Oropher.” A sandy haired elf who the King recognised immediately as one of Rhoven’s older grandchildren came striding towards them and saluted. “I believe we were less surprised when the Queen and Lady Galadriel passed us on the road.”

 

“Forgive us for springing this visit on you, Captain Himlas,” Oropher replied with a reassuring smile. “I will explain just as soon as Elder Luthavar joins us, in the interest of not having to repeat myself.”

 

Himlas hesitated long enough for Oropher’s heart to sink. “I am not certain of Elder Luthavar’s current whereabouts, your Majesty.”

 

“I see,” Oropher said neutrally. “Presumably he is in the camp.”

 

“He should be in the camp,” Himlas replied pointedly.

 

The King sighed and resisted the urge to rub his temples. He could already feel a headache threatening. Was it too much to ask for one of the elflings in his life to make things easy for him? “I’m not asking for pinpoint accuracy, Captain, but perhaps a vague idea of where my young cousin might be found.”

 

The slow spread of the warrior’s arms to encompass the entire camp made Oropher turn his eyes skywards while Elthoron looked away with a disbelieving shake of his head. “No ideas at all, daerion-nín?” Rhoven asked his grandson. “Nothing?”

 

“All I know is where he said he was going to be, which was helping with the horses, which he does every time we stop instead of putting tents up because he always manages to hurt his fingers when he does that,” Himlas answered. “From there he was going to check on the fruit supplies. I think that he was concerned that some of the apples are on the turn already. And from there I don’t know. But really, Daeradar, your timing couldn’t be worse. This is the first time since leaving Greenwood that we’ve lost him.”

 

“A true miracle,” Rhoven said flatly.

 

“You’re not wrong,” Himlas muttered. “Lutha is tricky. Elthoron knows that.”

 

Captain Elthoron looked back at his colleague with a short nod. His story with Lutha had started when he had been assigned the command of a months-long trading mission to the lands of the Lossoth in the far north. His responsibilities as the leader of that mission had included protecting and defending Lutha, who had been tasked with forging a trade alliance with the secretive Lossoth and securing a deal with them as Oropher’s ambassador. Though the two ellyn had returned to Greenwood with their relationship irrevocably changed, they had started out as strangers. Oropher still remembered from the initial reports that he had received during that time that Lutha had proven himself to be a particularly difficult charge. Whatever reasons the young Elder had had for starting out as a thorn in Elthoron’s side, he just generally seemed to struggle with the concept of staying where he was meant to or at the very least making people aware of where he was going. Just like Thranduil, Oropher thought irritably.

 

“Very well,” the King said, trying not to let the tone of his thoughts carry into his voice. He had to resign himself to the fact that his cousin was currently at an unspecified location somewhere in Middle-earth but presumably still within the borders of Ithilien. “I suggest a search party is put together to find Lutha and find him quickly. In the meantime, Captain Himlas, double the perimeter guard around the campsite and have your daily reports brought to me.”

 

Himlas hesitated, but Oropher’s silent unwillingness to explain himself coupled with a pointed look from Rhoven saw the warrior salute sharply and stride away. He paused only to exchange quiet words with a couple of uniformed soldiers who looked as bemused as he no doubt felt. That didn’t stop them running in opposite directions to carry out whatever commands he had issued them. Oropher turned away from watching them go to briefly rest his hand on Elthoron’s shoulder. In his heart of hearts he didn’t believe that Lutha was in danger. He believed that Lutha had sought some peace and quiet without thinking to mention it to his guards, because travelling in close quarters with so many elves for so many days got tiring even for the most sociable of elves. And yet, Oropher had to admit that that might just be because he didn’t want to entertain the thought of harm befalling his frustrating, dramatic, brilliantly clever cousin. That it might be because he’d only just lived through the near loss of his son and he couldn’t bear to go through anything like it again. That he didn’t want to have lied to Elthoron when he’d said that Lutha would be fine.

 

The King and his Captains retreated to the central command tent where the camp’s official business was taken care of. As they seated themselves at the travel-worn table, the elleth with the auburn braid who had spilled water on herself came into the open-sided pavilion. She brought with her elderflower wine and a plate of honeyed oatcakes. Seconds behind her was one of the soldiers that Himlas had spoken to, bearing a stack of papers. Oropher briefly thanked both of them, and as they retreated he took a third of the papers for himself, letting Rhoven and Elthoron divide the rest between them.

 

For the most part Oropher searched the reports for mention of the Easterlings, but his Rhûnic enemies made no appearance. That wasn’t to say that the supply caravan’s journey from Greenwood had been a peaceful one. The King read in simmering anger how a band of criminals had followed his people for two days through the middle of the Brown Lands, refusing all commands to retreat, until finally Captain Himlas had been forced to order an offensive strike against them. The resulting clash between men and elves had seen lives lost, though thankfully not on the side of the elves. There was mention also of starving mountain wolves prowling the outside of the camp for one long and frightening night on Dagorlad, and of a swiftly dealt with attack by a trio of over-positive orcs.

 

Not for the first or last time, Oropher felt a pang of guilt. He hated that he had sentenced his people to this. He could have followed the example set by his great-uncle Elu Thingol thousands of years before. He could have isolated his kingdom. He could have turned his back and closed his eyes while his fellow rulers fought the darkness spreading through the land. He would be a liar if he said that he hadn’t thought about it. In the middle of many a sleepless night, when he had stood on the balcony and stared out across his beloved forest where his people deserved to live in peace, he had allowed the idea to creep into his mind. But that had never been a viable choice. He couldn’t have been the one to turn his back. Not even when the alternative had been committing his people and those he loved most to years of war and hardship. He wasn’t Elu.

 

“Aran Oropher.”

 

The King looked up sharply as Elthoron’s tight voice broke into his thoughts. He followed the Captain’s cobalt gaze in time to see a blessedly familiar elf ducking between two supply carts as he crossed from the other side of the campsite back into the circle. “Lutha,” Oropher breathed in relief, closing his eyes for a moment before rising fluidly. “Elder Luthavar!” he called then, hardening his voice and making it carry.

 

The extra horses and warriors in the camp had not escaped Lutha’s notice. His dark eyes had slowly scanned them as he mentally did the calculations and tried to decide why their number had suddenly doubled, but the sound of his name made him freeze. He turned slowly then towards the pavilion. The pearl buttons on his garnet coloured coat gleamed in the late sunlight. “Come,” Oropher commanded, watching impassively as Lutha slowly ran a hand down the front of his chest as if smoothing away invisible creases from his tunic of silver and indigo brocade.

 

Lutha’s eyes lingered on Elthoron as he entered the pavilion, but years of royal etiquette gave him the presence of mind to bow to his King. “I am very confused,” he began, as he straightened.

 

“As were we when we arrived in camp and found you not part of it,” Oropher said mildly. “Rhoven, kindly inform Captain Himlas that the search party may be stood down.”

 

“Search party?” Lutha repeated as Rhoven stepped past him. “I was only…but how can you possibly be more confused than me? I’m meant to be here. You’re meant to be two hundred miles away.”

 

“Yes. You are meant to be here,” Oropher agreed. He resumed his seat and gestured for Elthoron to sit back down too. He did not extend the same courtesy to Lutha. The young Elder remained standing in uncomfortable silence as the King’s green eyes bored into him.

 

Lutha took a breath when the silence had stretched as far as he could take it. “May I just-”

 

“You may not,” Oropher said calmly.

 

“But I…”

 

Oropher barely lifted his hand from the table, but Lutha noticed it and immediately fell silent. “Are you injured or in any way unwell, Luthavar?”

 

“I...no.”

 

“Do you require medical attention, sustenance, or water?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you have information that you must impart at once for the good of the kingdom or the safety of anyone here, at home, or at war?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then you may not,” Oropher said.

 

From the corner of his eye he saw a glint of gold as Elthoron gave Lutha a minute shake of his head. The young Elder bit back whatever he had wanted to say and instead settled for a mutinous silence. Willing to allow that, Oropher returned his attention to the report that he had nearly finished reading. It was more or less redundant now that Lutha had been found and Captain Himlas was on his way back, but doubling up on information wasn’t a bad thing. Besides, Oropher had learned through years of being a father, uncle, and older cousin, that sometimes a long silence worked wonders on a young elf’s bad attitude.

 

When Himlas arrived at the pavilion, Oropher set the report aside and gestured for both the Captain and his Elder of Trade and Commerce to sit. If Himlas knew that Lutha was in deep disgrace, he gave no sign of it as he took the seat next to Rhoven while Lutha sat beside Elthoron. Oropher made short work of telling them why he had come with a host of warriors at his back. They didn’t need to know why he was the one checking on them instead of delegating to one of his heirs. All they needed to know was that there was a threat to their safety. Or that there had been. Oropher still couldn’t be sure which was correct now. What had started out as a seemingly life-or-death situation had turned into something anti-climactic. It troubled the King in a way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, as if there was some missing puzzle piece just out of reach.

 

As Oropher finished speaking, Captain Himlas frowned at the surface of the well-worn table. He traced a long scratch with the tip of his finger a couple of times, up and down, before breaking the silence. “Obviously, aran-nín, the supply caravan is a target,” he said slowly. “From a strategic point of view and a people-are-hungry-and-want-food point of view.”

 

“And from a orcs-like-the-taste-of-elves point of view,” Lutha added, earning himself a quelling look from Oropher and what sounded to the King like an under-the-table smack to his thigh from Elthoron.

 

“However blasé the wording, I fear he’s not wrong,” Himlas said. “Orcs see horses and bodies, and they think food.”

 

“They are driven by bloodlust, I know,” Oropher acknowledged.

 

“I won’t say that the Easterlings don’t enjoy a spot of bloodshed, but they’re not opportunistic like the orcs,” Himlas added. “They’re a disciplined lot and they’ve a fair understanding of military tactics, though I’m loathe to sound anything but contemptuous of them.”

 

Oropher dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Nobody was ever disadvantaged by knowing an enemy’s strengths.”

 

“Thank you, aran-nín. I suppose what I’m saying is that I’m of the mind to agree with Prince Aratan. If we were going to be attacked by the Easterlings, it would have happened already when we were exposed in the Brown Lands,” Himlas said.

 

“There is no history of even attempted large-scale attacks against the supply caravan from here onwards?” Captain Rhoven asked his grandson.

 

“This is my third time leading this command and I’ve not experienced it yet,” Himlas replied. “And I’ve never heard of such from any of the other Captains.”

 

“Ithilien is usually the best part of the journey,” Lutha ventured. “It’s pretty well policed by the garrison at Minas Ithil. Mostly between here and there it’s refugees looking for food, or the occasional daring creatures of Sauron whose successful escape through the mountains has given them such delusions of grandeur that they think they can _actually_ take over a full supply caravan all by themselves. I’d normally root for the underdog but in these cases the underdog gets shot.”

 

“How reassuring to hear you say so,” Oropher remarked dryly. “And how do you typically find the route from Minas Ithil through Mordor?”

 

“I wouldn’t holiday there but I can’t say that I’ve ever experienced significant problems,” Lutha answered, idly toying with a slightly loose pearl button on his open coat. “Through the Nameless Pass we’re covered by Elendil’s men. Once we emerge on the other side we’re escorted across the wasteland by whichever patrol has been sent to wait for us. I really can’t see that there’s opportunity for a large-scale coordinated attack. In the Brown Lands, yes, absolutely. But not now. I’m not military minded, but…”

 

“But you’re right, Lutha-nín,” Elthoron said quietly.

 

Oropher watched Lutha’s grey eyes light up with hope that his earlier misadventures were not unforgivable. He offered Elthoron a smile. The Captain didn’t return it, but his gaze softened in a way that made Lutha breathe out in quiet relief. Oropher couldn’t help but smile to himself. He hadn’t forgotten his cousin’s disappearance, and he had every intention of discussing it with Lutha most thoroughly when the time was right, but it pleased him to see someone look at the young elf that way. That expression of unspoken feeling was one of the many enduring things that he remembered about his parents. It was the way that he and Felith looked at each other. It was the way that Thranduil and Aiwen were just tentatively starting to look at each other when they thought that nobody else was watching. It was love.

 

“So,” Lutha said, trying to regain his composure as he lowered his lashes and looked away from Elthoron, “I guess nobody’s getting massacred today.”

 

“It seems not,” Oropher agreed.

 

“You almost sound disappointed, cousin,” Lutha remarked impishly.

 

“Even so,” the King said pointedly, declining to grace that with a response, “Captain Himlas, I would like you to maintain the double perimeter guard for now and deploy extra scouts. I see no harm in being cautious. You might task Lutha’s search party with the responsibility now that their services are no longer required for that duty.”

 

Himlas rose and saluted, and Rhoven watched his grandson out of the pavilion before turning his thoughtful cornflower gaze back to Oropher. “With your permission, aran-nín, I will see to arranging our route back to Mordor. I expect we will not wish to travel at the pace of the supply caravan all the way there.”

 

“Indeed not. But our warriors and horses have ridden hard with little rest. I would like them to eat well and have a full night of sleep before we make the return journey,” Oropher replied. “I suggest that we leave in the morning, by which time the extra patrol sent out by the sons of Isildur should be here. If they are to return to Minas Ithil anyway, they might as well escort the supply caravan the rest of the way there.”

 

“Very good, your Majesty,” Rhoven agreed.

 

As he departed the tent, that left Oropher alone with Elthoron and a suddenly uneasy Lutha. The King let his gaze slide to the other side of the table. His cousin was regarding him in a way that reminded him of how the young palace cats looked at the fierce tomcat that prowled the grounds on the hunt for mice. Oropher was not entirely displeased to see that Lutha hadn’t forgotten about his earlier disappearance. He was even more gratified that the young elf seemed to be taking it seriously, because Lutha could be worse than Thranduil at adopting an appropriate level of solemnity when his misbehaviour was up for discussion.

 

“Look, about the search party,” Lutha began.

 

“Yes, about that.” Oropher folded his arms coolly. “Where were you?” 


	11. A Grey Eyed Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the threat from the east apparently gone, Oropher would like nothing more than to solve the mystery of what Galadriel was thinking when she sent him away from war, his wife, and his child. First, he must deal with a distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that as per the tags, this chapter contains spanking as a form of discipline.

“Where were you?”

 

The silence that followed hung heavily in the tent as Oropher fixed his steady gaze on Elder Luthavar. The younger elf rested his chin in his hands with a sigh. Through strands of dark hair that fell down past his ear, the sparkle of a garnet earring trapped within a net of silver was briefly visible. “I’m afraid you’re going to be awfully disappointed,” Lutha said. “Because as much as I would love to tell you that I unearthed some mystery or that I’m at the heart of an exciting scandal, I can’t.”

 

That was fair enough. Oropher already had one mystery to solve thanks to Galadriel forcing him on the rescue-mission-that-wasn’t. As for Lutha-related scandals, they tended to be messy and dramatic. “So mystery and scandal are out. That leaves what, precisely?” the King asked.

 

“Er…cleanliness and hygiene?”

 

Oropher blinked twice at the apparent non-sequitur. “Excuse me?”

 

“Oh, for the love of…he went to bathe.” Elthoron rounded on Lutha with a flash of dark blue eyes. “You went to bathe in the pool beyond the stand of trees out there. Didn’t you?”

 

“It really is one of the last good pools before Mordor,” Lutha replied, idly twisting a lock of hair around his finger as Elthoron’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “If you stand in the right place under the waterfall it feels almost like a shoulder massage. And not only is the pool big enough that you can swim from end to end, but the hot springs make some parts of it warm so it’s like having a bath.”

 

“Luthavar,” Elthoron growled under his breath.

 

“I always use it when we stop here,” Lutha added.

 

_“Luthavar!”_

 

“What? Once we get past Minas Ithil it’s water rations all the way,” Lutha said defensively. “I’m sorry for wanting to luxuriate for a minute or two.”

 

“Except it wasn’t a minute or two, was it, because you were gone for an hour and nobody knew where you were,” Elthoron snapped. He took Lutha’s slender wrist and held it so the palm of his lover’s hand was facing upwards. “You could hardly have been swimming for all that time either, because your skin is remarkably smooth for someone who just spent an hour submerged in water.”

 

One by one, Lutha started delicately removing Elthoron’s fingers from around his wrist. “I fell asleep.”

 

“You did what?” Elthoron asked slowly.

 

“I fell asleep while I was drying off in the sun,” Lutha clarified.

 

“Oh, wonderful,” the Captain hissed. “So not only did you think that it was clever to leave camp unguarded and swim alone, but you also made the decision to lie on the ground and fall asleep without-”

 

“Nobody ever _decides_ to fall asleep,” Lutha said under his breath.

 

“Without a single person around to make sure that nobody crept up and slit your throat,” Elthoron finished severely. “It is only by the grace of the Belain that you are even here to tell this story.”

 

Oropher didn’t mind that Elthoron had taken over reprimanding Lutha. This was a quarrel that the two younger elves would have needed to have anyway, so it was just as well for them to start getting it over and done with there and then. Besides, it gave the King an opportunity to observe his not-yet-sorry little cousin and consider how best to deal with the matter. “And I shall be sure to thank the Belain one day for the gifts that they have bestowed upon me,” Lutha was saying. “But look, it was just a spur of the moment thing.”

 

“A spur of the moment thing,” Elthoron repeated sardonically. “It _just_ occurred to you to go swimming.”

 

“It _just_ occurred to me, following a day on horseback and an hour surrounded by yet more horses, that perhaps I should get clean instead of smelling like a stable. I was dusty and horsey.” Lutha suppressed a shudder. “I don’t care to be either of those things, but war demands sacrifices of us all.”

 

Elthoron opened his mouth to berate the younger elf further, but Oropher taking a quiet breath made him stop. “I do not believe you,” the King said.

 

“I accept that we have different ideas of sacrifice. But if I was going to lie about my whereabouts, I would make it sound really fun and include dragons or pirates. Maybe dragons _and_ pirates. Dragon-pirates?” Lutha fell silent for a moment, his gaze going distant as he considered the logistics of such a hybrid. Then he shook himself and focused on his older kinsman. “No, I was bathing. You may check behind my ears if you like and see how pristine they are.”

 

“There is no need. I believe that you bathed,” Oropher said.

 

“Well, then,” Lutha replied.

 

“But you forget that I have travelled with you. You forget that I know you,” Oropher said, his tone deceptively mild. “And I know, Lutha, that when it _just occurs_ to you to go and bathe, you take a change of clothes. Because even at your most impulsive, you have the presence of mind to know that you do not want to put your clean, freshly washed self into clothes that are travel-worn and dirty.”

 

Lutha’s charcoal grey eyes widened. Most insults he could take, but aspersions cast about his clothing or his hair was a step too far. “My clothes are _never_ dirty, thank you very much.”

 

“So tell me I’m wrong.” Oropher stood up and walked slowly around the table until he was standing next to Lutha. As the young elf swallowed but defiantly met his gaze, he perched on the edge of the table. “Tell me you didn’t deliberately leave a fresh change of clothes behind so that when you returned from your little adventure, in the same clothes that you have been wearing since you got up this morning, you could act as though you had been in camp all along,” Oropher added, idly plucking a stray horse hair from the collar of Lutha’s dark red coat. “Tell me you didn’t want time to yourself. Time away from your guards, away from all these people you must live in close quarters with. I understand that need for solitude, cousin. If that is what you felt, and I believe it is, then I understand.”

 

“I didn’t… I just… oh, fine,” Lutha snapped, raising his hands in surrender and sitting back with a defeated sigh. “You missed your calling in life. You should investigate crimes.”

 

“This wasn’t a crime. I am not treating it as such,” Oropher said quietly. “But you crossed the open and exposed land between here and that stand of trees a quarter mile away with nothing but your own eyes and the one belt knife I see at your waist. Mere minutes ago you spoke to me of attacks carried out here in Ithilien. Knowing that, how could you possibly risk your life in that way? What you did was dangerous, reckless, and appallingly foolish. Not to mention-”

 

“Please don’t say that word,” Lutha muttered as he covered his eyes with his hand.

 

“I had not planned to,” Oropher retorted, sharply enough to make Lutha immediately drop his hand and stare at him. “I was _going_ to say it was disobedient. But you are quite right, ‘naughty’ works just as well.”

 

“Brilliant,” Lutha sighed. “Look, I’m sorry that you were worried about me.”

 

“How nice of you to say so,” Elthoron remarked cuttingly. “Is there any chance that you are _just_ sorry?”

 

Lutha took a breath as if he already had a response ready to go. Then he hesitated, and slowly let the breath back out. Oropher knew the answer to the question that Elthoron had asked, and he suspected that Elthoron himself did too. “I enjoyed myself at the pool,” Lutha said slowly. “I think that if you haven’t hurt someone or broken the law, you shouldn’t be sorry for something that gives you pleasure. Especially not these days when there is so little to enjoy. So on balance…no. I’m not sorry. But I am genuinely sorry that you – that both of you – had cause to worry, and I’m sorry that other elves got pulled away from their duties or well-earned rest to form a search party.”

 

“I believe that you are sorry for those things,” Oropher acknowledged. “Still, I find myself disappointed by your apparent lack of regard for your own safety.”

 

“Well, you know what they say,” Lutha sighed. “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

 

“And you will be forgiven,” the King allowed. “But before then it seems that there is a lesson for you to learn. So, unless you have anything else to add, you are dismissed to go with Captain Elthoron.”

 

Lutha looked up sharply, his gaze going first to Oropher, second to Elthoron, and finally back again. “Why?”

 

The question caught Oropher off guard, but he kept his expression carefully controlled. He may not have said outright that Lutha was going to be punished, but he didn’t think that it had been necessary to do so. Perhaps if Lutha had been unaccustomed to discipline, but everyone in the tent knew that wasn’t the case. Oropher was sure that Lutha couldn’t have interpreted his words in any other way, so unless he was deliberately stalling then the only other option was that he wanted his older cousin to handle matters instead of his lover. Oropher wasn’t used to being the preferable choice when it came to discipline. He was never harsh – although the young ones in his family might be better behaved if he was, he thought ruefully – but leniency was certainly a word that no recalcitrant elfling would ever associate with him.

 

“I thought,” Oropher said finally, “that given the inevitability of a difficult discussion between yourself and the Captain, that you would want to get it over with sooner rather than later. If I am mistaken, Lutha, then by all means tell me. I will gladly take care of this myself and you may resolve things with Elthoron later. It makes no difference to the final result whether you have your bottom warmed by me or by him. So if you want to choose, go ahead.”

 

“It’s so nice of you to give me options,” Lutha said. “Might I suggest another one?”

 

“Neither of us is not an option,” Oropher retorted.

 

“Well, I tried,” Lutha said idly.

 

As a rule, Oropher always tried his best to keep his temper when he dealt with elves who were being particularly maddening – especially younger elves, who tended to be more sensitive about being on the receiving end of a tongue lashing from the King. But now, Oropher couldn’t help feeling a flash of anger at Lutha’s insouciance, even though it was a trait that amused him more often than it annoyed him. “Stand up at once, Luthavar,” he snapped.

 

Despite the young elf’s casual approach to life, even he couldn’t disobey an order like that. He got to his feet and took a breath to speak, but Oropher silenced him with a furious look before he could even say a word. Still half-sitting and half-leaning on the table, Oropher put his booted foot on the chair that Lutha had been using. His intent must have been obvious, because Lutha tried to take a step back. With Elthoron sitting on his other side, there was nowhere for him to go. Oropher took Lutha by the upper arm and pulled him forward so that he was bent over the King’s thigh. In one deft movement, Oropher swept Lutha’s red coat and black silk tunic up and out of the way, and pulled his leggings tight across his bottom.

 

Lutha drew an incredulous breath, one hand gripping the edge of the table and the other pushed back against Oropher’s leg. “You can’t-”

 

“Be silent,” Oropher commanded. He drew back the hand that wasn’t busy with Lutha’s clothing, and brought it down with a loud crack. Lutha made a sound that was pain, dismay, and anger all rolled into one, but the King ignored it in favour of settling into a steady rhythm of smacks that fell across the fullest part of his cousin’s bottom. He didn’t make them quite full strength, but they weren’t far off it. This wasn’t the sort of drawn out punishment he might deliver in private, where there was time to spend on starting off at half strength and gradually building up. It was only meant to be a short, sharp lesson.

 

“This is not a game, Luthavar Faelindion,” Oropher said in a low voice, staying his hand when he had landed a dozen smacks.

 

“No, because it would be a horrible game,” Lutha whispered through gritted teeth.

 

Oropher promptly swatted the sensitive curve of the bottom upturned across his thigh. It made Lutha kick his feet and gasp “oh no, no, not there!” so Oropher smacked the same spot another three times since it seemed to make such an impression. “Your _safety_ is not a game,” he said quietly. “You will not play with your life as if it does not matter, and you _will_ heed me and anyone else when we try and keep you safe. Do you understand? Or do I need to reinforce this lesson any further?”

 

The only response to the question was Lutha’s tearful breathing. Oropher slipped his fingers under the waistband of Lutha’s leggings and started to pull them down. “No, don’t, I promise I understand!” Lutha protested, flinging his hand back to grab the King’s wrist. Effortlessly shaking him off, Oropher straightened the leggings before sealing the lesson with a final round of powerful smacks to deepen the blush of rosy pink that he had caught a glimpse of. He had been counting on Lutha answering his question the way that he wanted. He’d have fully bared the young elf if that was what it had come to, because he didn’t care to have his authority undermined by failing to carry out a threat, but it wouldn’t have been ideal. While Oropher thought that he had got away with the punishment that he had already meted out, delivering a full bare-bottom spanking in an open sided pavilion would have been much less inconspicuous. And after all, Lutha was still part of the Circle of Elders and a member of Greenwood’s royal family. However he behaved as Lutha, it was still important for the people to respect him as Elder Luthavar and as Lord Luthavar.

 

Oropher let Lutha stand then, but he kept his foot on the chair so that his cousin couldn’t storm past him. “Who are you going to choose, Lutha?” he asked quietly, straightening the younger elf’s upper clothing. “Me or Elthoron?”

 

Tears swam in Lutha’s dark grey eyes and clung tremulously to his lashes. He held his tightly clenched fists in front of him to avoid the temptation of reaching back to rub his aching backside. “I choose Elthoron,” he whispered. He took a ragged breath, and then added bravely, “You put me in charge of the supply caravan. You can’t just turn up and take over.”

 

That made Oropher pause in smoothing down the collar of Lutha’s coat. He stood up properly and put his hands on Lutha’s shoulder, holding the smaller elf’s gaze intently. “I am incredibly fond of you, Lutha. That means that I am prepared to make some allowances for you. However, I must warn you not to take them for granted nor to forget your place. There are two things that tell me I can ‘just turn up and take over.’ This is the first.” Oropher lifted his right hand, the palm facing towards himself, so Lutha could see the signet ring engraved with an oak tree under a winged moon. It was Oropher’s personal sigil, and the emblem of the King of the Greenwood. “The second thing,” Oropher added, “is that when I came to Greenwood in search of a peaceful life, you and your colleagues _wanted_ me to just turn up and take over. You are one of the elves responsible for the crown that I wear, Luthavar. You made your choice nine hundred years ago. I suggest you remember it.”

 

Oropher felt Lutha’s shoulders slump and he saw the shame and defeat in his cousin’s eyes. He tried not to let it affect him, but it was hard when he had fallen back on the two things that he always tried to avoid using. Pulling rank didn’t sit well with Oropher, though his great-uncle Elu Thingol had often relied on it. In Doriath, Oropher had witnessed many an elf be intimidated into obeying or agreeing with the King. It had been the status quo, and few had dared to argue with it. Lady Neldiel had. Oropher had been small at the time, and he only remembered it as a period where he and his brother had stayed with their great-grandparents Lord Elmo and Lady Aerdis because their parents were ‘somewhere else’. Years later, he had discovered from Celeborn that Neldiel had been imprisoned for twelve days and given a judicial birching for defying Elu. Celepharn, loyal to the King but even more loyal to Neldiel, had been sentenced to the same length of time in prison and a whipping, for refusing to condemn his wife’s conduct. Oropher might not remember that time well, but he did remember wondering as he grew up whether frightening people into obedience was a sign of weakness or power, and asking himself if it could even be both. Now, as a King himself, he could acknowledge that while Elu had had many strengths, that had not been one of them.

 

The second point that Oropher had raised was something that made him feel particularly unkind. He had never gone to Greenwood with the intention of claiming it for himself. He had even been willing to set aside his noble birthright and exchange a life of wealth and privilege for one of simplicity if it meant peace for his family. Academia had always been of great interest to Oropher, especially languages. He had imagined himself becoming a teacher like his grandfather, the famed loremaster Lord Brandir, or even a bookbinder like his Uncle Garthon, the common ellon who had married his mother’s eldest sister. All of that he had imagined from the rustic thatched cottage where he had settled with Felith and their then little son, neither of whom had cared about fine silks, rare jewels, feasts and balls, politics, court scandals, and everything else that came with being prominent members of society. Oropher too had stopped thinking about such things. Life had been good. Simple, but good.

 

The Elders of Greenwood had allowed him a year of that life. Then, they had summoned him to the palace that he had later come to rule from, and they had told him of a prophecy spoken on the winter night when his son had been born hundreds of miles away in Lindon. A prophecy which spoke of a golden king with a flaming sword who would one day see Greenwood through her darkest days as evil swept the land. Oropher understood then and understood now that he was not that king. He understood that despite his nine hundred years of rule, he was merely a guardian of the realm until, whenever and however it came to pass, Thranduil stepped forward to take the crown and become that golden king. The Elders had told Oropher that he had a choice, that he could go back to his simple life, but that had never been true. He could never have walked away from that prophecy when so much had depended on his small, sweet son one day becoming the mighty king that was foretold. Their lives had changed that day. Oropher knew that the Elders had been grieved, but none more so than Lutha. Lutha, barely past his third yén at the time, had been devastated, and in later years he had spoken often to the King of the guilt and shame he had felt at his part in it.

 

“I do remember the choice that I made, aran-nín,” Lutha whispered. “And I am sorry.”

 

Oropher wasn’t sure if Lutha was sorry for his long-ago part in creating an unwilling king or for the behaviour that he had displayed to that same King in the here and now. It didn’t make a difference. He pulled his cousin firmly into his arms and spoke quietly against his ear. “I know that you are sorry, Lutha. You have my forgiveness.”

 

Lutha lingered in the embrace for a moment, his face pressed against Oropher’s shoulder and his head slightly bowed. When he drew back, the tears had fallen from his eyes but even so he managed a weak smile. “Is it too much to hope that I have your forgiveness for my adventure to the pool?”

 

“That is still to be dealt with, so best get it over with sooner rather than later,” Oropher replied, not unkindly. “Why don’t you go now with Elthoron.”

 

It was with some reluctance that Lutha nodded, and he left with Elthoron after the Captain gave his quiet obeisance to the King. Oropher watched them go, keeping his eyes on them as they crossed the campsite to whichever private place Elthoron was taking Lutha. They were about halfway across when Elthoron put his hand around the back of Lutha’s neck and pulled his lover’s head against his shoulder in rough but comforting reassurance. Oropher nodded to himself in silent approval. He didn’t have to worry about Lutha. Not where Elthoron was concerned, at least.

 

Alone in the tent, Oropher sank down into the nearest chair. He automatically picked up one of the scout reports to keep his hands and his mind occupied, but he barely glanced at it before dropping it back on the table with a sigh. The threat – if ever it had existed – was being dealt with by a doubled guard and extra scouts. Lutha was safe. The rest of the travellers with the supply caravan were safe. There was nothing else to be done, so studying the reports just seemed pointless now. Oropher tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. The lack of impending attack was a good thing, he reminded himself, and so was Lutha being in Elthoron’s care. And yet, with both of those things out of the way, his thoughts started to drift. Why was he even there? Why had Galadriel sent him so far, not to mention away from Felith and Thranduil, when the only thing that he had achieved was hauling his little cousin across his lap? Surely Captain Himlas could have managed that well enough, he thought irritably.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

Oropher looked up as the voice broke into his wandering thoughts. “Rhoven. Is all well?”

 

“All is well.” The Captain of Oropher’s guard stepped further into the pavilion and looked intently at his King. “But we need to talk.”


	12. A Prayer on the Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No closer to solving the mystery of Galadriel, Oropher’s thoughts turn to those he has left behind.

“We need to talk.”

 

Those were four words that never ended well. Oropher sat back with a resigned sigh as he prepared himself to hear what Rhoven had to say. “Very well. Lutha and his disappearing act are being dealt with by Elthoron. We shall not be disturbed.”

 

“Good,” Rhoven murmured. “May I ask where he disappeared to?”

 

“A lovely pool with a waterfall and hot springs, and not a single guard in sight,” Oropher replied sardonically. “He seemed not to appreciate the warm up that he got from me before going with Elthoron.”

 

“Imagine that,” Rhoven said in the same tone. “But he is well otherwise?”

 

Oropher hesitated, and then he covered his hesitation by leaning down to pick up a report that a light breeze had blown off the table. Lutha could be difficult to read even by those who knew him best. It made seeing to his emotional welfare tricky at times, and a thing that had to be handled delicately. “I believe he will be,” the King said finally. “He likely has some things that he needs to talk about, but he seems to confide most easily in Elthoron. I expect we will not see them for the rest of the day.”

 

“Quite likely,” Rhoven agreed. “And how are you?”

 

Startled, Oropher blinked and nearly dropped the paper back where he had just picked it up from. “Me?”

 

“You,” Rhoven said patiently. “How are you?”

 

So that was what they ‘needed’ to talk about. It made Oropher smile in reluctant but fond gratitude. Sometimes deflecting a question like that was easy. It all depended who asked it, and Captain Rhoven was not an elf one lied to. His son Taldur was of an age with Oropher, but Taldur had been born to Rhoven and his wife later in their immortal lives. Their youngest daughter Luissel had been the age-mate of Oropher’s parents. It was difficult even for a King to lie to an elf old enough to be his grandfather. Besides, Oropher often found that he didn’t _want_ to hide the truth from Rhoven. The Captain was easy to talk to, and his calm and steady manner had ever been a welcome relief to the King against the often stressful backdrop of ruling.

 

“I am worried,” Oropher admitted finally. “We came here on the understanding that there was a Rhûnic threat to the supply caravan.”

 

“Even the best spies get it wrong,” Rhoven replied. “The one who brought this to you will discover whether his informant made a true mistake or if the false intelligence was deliberately given. However that turns out, I don’t believe that we could have done any more than we did. It was time-sensitive. There was no chance to check and verify the information.”

 

“We had to act on it,” Oropher acknowledged. “I understand that.”

 

“Do you still believe that there may be something in it?” Rhoven asked.

 

“No. I do not. And that is what concerns me,” Oropher said quietly.

 

Rhoven gave the younger ellon a long and thoughtful look. “Tell me.”

 

Not entirely sure how to put it into words, Oropher stood and restlessly paced the length of the tent. It wouldn’t achieve anything but it felt better than sitting still. “You know that the choices I made before we rode out were not my own,” he said, turning back to face Rhoven. “Galadriel influenced them. I see little point in glossing over that. She did. I put my personal feelings about that aside, assuming that she would only do it because riding to the aid of my people was urgent.”

 

“A fair assumption,” Rhoven conceded.

 

“I assumed it must have been _so_ urgent that Galadriel needed me to make that decision immediately,” Oropher continued. “That there was so little time to spare that she could not even come to me and tell me herself why it was important. Then we get here and we find that it was never important, it was never urgent.”

 

“No doubt Lady Galadriel can be wrong just as easily as your spies,” Rhoven commented.

 

“No doubt,” Oropher echoed with a sigh. “But if it is not that she wanted me _here_ it is that she wanted me gone from _there._ Away from Mordor. It troubles me, Rhoven. Anything could be happening to my son, my wife, to any number of elves I care about, and I am not there for them.” 

 

“Anything could be happening or nothing could be happening,” Rhoven said calmly. “To fear the worst is to borrow trouble.”

 

“Then what should I do?” Oropher demanded. “What am I meant to think?”

 

A few quick strides from Rhoven closed the distance between himself and the King. He placed his hands on Oropher’s shoulders and met the younger elf’s intent green eyes with his own light blue gaze. “I cannot tell you what you must think or do, and I do not dismiss your concerns. I agree with you that something strange could be at work here. That said, I also think it is entirely possible that the threat from the east was always legitimate, that they always intended to attack the supply caravan but circumstances that we don’t know about turned them back. You cannot know the answer to those questions until we have returned to the war camp, Oropher. Anything we think of or worry about before then is nothing but guesswork and speculation.”

 

“And have I not warned others against those very same things,” Oropher murmured ruefully, half to himself.

 

Rhoven gave his King’s shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “I know that you are troubled. Your worry is not misplaced. But tomorrow morning we return to Mordor, and that will be time enough for you to solve this mystery.”

 

It was impossible for Oropher to completely set aside his fears, but with a quiet nod he reluctantly acknowledged the truth of Rhoven’s words. There was nothing he could do. It was out of his hands and he was powerless. Just the thought made him clench his fists. He would never have imagined being desperate to go back to the horrors of Mordor. And yet, not knowing what he had left behind, there was nowhere he would rather be.

 

Oropher tried to turn his attention to what royal duties he might take on to occupy himself until night fell. There were other reports to read, and no doubt a petition or two to hear from quarrelling travellers. As the King verbalised his thoughts, Rhoven listened with all the patient tolerance of an indulgent father while discreetly moving the scout reports out of Oropher’s reach. “Given that Himlas has not raised anything that requires your immediate attention, aran-nín, any further reports can no doubt wait to be dealt with in the usual manner when they reach the war camp,” the Captain said. “As to petitions, Elder Luthavar has the authority to hear such things on your behalf. I doubt anyone has any issue so urgent it cannot wait until he resumes his normal duties tomorrow.”

 

“I expect you are correct, Rhoven,” Oropher said, letting a small drop of acidity into his voice. He thought that he could guess where Rhoven was going with this. “Still, I can hardly sit about and do nothing.”

 

“Why not?” Rhoven asked mildly.

 

“What do you suggest I do instead?” Oropher asked, declining to answer the question.

 

Rhoven breathed in deeply. A small but contented smile spread across his face as he closed his eyes. Curiously – though still somewhat grudgingly – Oropher did the same, taking a long breath in. Over woody campfire smoke he could smell all the things that made Ithilien so far removed from Mordor, despite its close proximity to that foul land. It wasn’t just the scent of the trees and the flowers. It was the air itself that was pure and fresh. It was being able to breathe in so deeply that one could fill their lungs completely with clean air, instead of the short, shallow breaths that most people took whilst in Mordor to avoid breathing in particles of dust, ash, and other unthinkable things.

 

“We are only here for one night,” Rhoven said gently. “Try to enjoy it without guilt.”

 

That was asking a lot, and Oropher thought that the Captain likely knew it. And yet, he couldn’t deny the temptation of Rhoven’s suggestion. Soon enough he would be back in that awful place where he held thousands of his people’s lives in his hands, where rest and joy were things that came rarely. Almost against his will, the King found himself nodding. “Very well, Rhoven,” he said. “You win this time.”

 

“I take my victories where I can, aran-nín,” Rhoven replied evenly.

 

Despite Oropher’s reluctance to heed Rhoven’s advice, he decided later that night that he was glad to have done so. While it was still light enough, they had gone to Lutha’s pool in company with the other members of the King’s Guard. It had been immediately clear to Oropher why his young cousin enjoyed visiting it. Everything was as Lutha had described, even down to the bath-like spots where hot springs warmed the water. The circle of trees that stood around it shut it off from the world, letting only lazy rays of sunlight through. It was easy to forget, there, that they were at war.

  

That night, after dining with some of the elves who worked alongside Lutha on his supply journeys, Oropher paused on his way to the tent that had been put up for him. He gazed thoughtfully at the campfire that had caught his attention and the solitary figure who stood beside it. “You go on, Rhoven,” the King murmured to the Captain of his guard. “I shall be along soon.” He crossed to the campfire then, making his footsteps a touch louder than they naturally were. He didn’t want to startle his young cousin. “Lutha,” he said softly, when he was near enough. “I thought that you would be with Elthoron.”

 

“I was. Himlas needed him for warrior stuff.” Lutha shrugged, his arms wrapped around himself. “He said he wouldn’t be long. I’m just waiting.”

 

“Would you like me to keep you company?” Oropher asked.

 

“You’re the King,” Lutha replied blandly.

 

“That doesn’t mean that you are under any obligation to tolerate my presence,” Oropher said.

 

“Well, you’re here now,” Lutha sighed. “You might as well stay.”

 

A small smile touched Oropher’s lips. He understood that was his little cousin’s special way of saying that he didn’t want to be alone. “Very well. How are you, Lutha?”

 

“How…how _am_ I?” Lutha repeated incredulously. He stared at the King and then looked back into the fire with a sardonic sort of huff that made it plain just what he thought of that question. “Next time a human asks me how we tell the older elves from the younger, I will tell them about this moment. I will tell them that the less an elf remembers what it is like to be well spanked, the older they are.”

 

“I remember, Lutha,” Oropher said gently. “Is that not the whole point? That we remember and we don’t make the same mistakes again?”

 

The flames dancing in Lutha’s dark grey eyes couldn’t quite hide their flicker of unhappiness. “Or that we make them another fifty times before realising maybe we shouldn’t.”

 

“Four and a half,” Oropher murmured.

 

“What?”

 

“Four and a half,” Oropher repeated with a soft laugh. “My father once expressed his displeasure about my behaviour because it was my second time doing this particular thing. I don’t even remember what it was. My mother promptly breezed into the room and said, ‘and he will likely do it another two and a half times before he learns his lesson, darling, so I wouldn’t take it to heart. If he does it a fifth time, then you may be cross.’”

 

Lutha managed a reluctant laugh, but then he paused. “What is the half?”

 

“When you start doing it a fifth time and think better of it,” Oropher answered dryly.

 

“Oh. That makes sense. But I don’t intend to do that again,” Lutha said quietly.

 

Oropher didn’t enjoy being responsible for the pain or teary face of an elfling whose punishment he had either delivered himself or authorised, but he did tend to be pragmatic about discipline. If it had to be given, it meant that the unfortunate recipient was well deserving of it. Still, that didn’t mean that the King couldn’t be sympathetic. “Was Elthoron very hard on you?” he asked, resting his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.

 

“No.” Lutha heaved a miserable sigh and tightened his arms around himself. “Mostly he just used his hand. But…well, you know that today wasn’t the only time I went to the pool by myself.”

 

“I realised that,” Oropher said neutrally.

 

“So Elthoron gave me one from the strap for every other time I’ve gone there,” Lutha added, glancing sideways at his older kinsman.

 

“Whether you went there once or ten times, it has been dealt with,” Oropher said quietly. “I have nothing more to add.”

 

Lutha’s slender shoulders lifted as he breathed in and exhaled in relief. He only let half the breath out before hesitating, and asking warily, “Are my fathers going to hear about this?”

 

“What does Elthoron say about that sort of thing?” Oropher asked, to give himself a moment to decide how to answer the question.

 

“Nothing. That is, he might tell me if he thinks they ought to know about something, but he would never _make_ me tell them,” Lutha clarified. “And he would never tell them himself unless I asked him to or unless I was at imminent risk of harm. Which I’m not, so maybe it isn’t necessary for them to know about this.”

 

It wasn’t a question, but the hopeful inflection that Lutha gave it turned it into one. Oropher turned his cousin to face him and looked intently into the younger elf’s grey eyes. “I would want to know if it was Thranduil.” He paused, his heart clenching. “I wish that I had known _when_ it was Thranduil crossing back and forth between our camp and the enemy camps. So much would have been different. I will not command you to tell Baralin or Faelind, because I do not consider you to be at risk of making this mistake again. However, speaking as a father myself, I can tell you that your fathers, who love you very much, would want to know. They may be upset, and I could not make the promise that you would not earn further consequences from them. _But,_ they would be proud of you for being honest with them, and you know that you would not lose their love.”

 

“Yes. I know. But I might think about it some more,” Lutha suggested.

 

Oropher nodded and moved his hands down to his cousin’s upper arms, giving them a gentle squeeze of encouragement. “You have time.”

 

As the King released him, Lutha smiled gratefully and pulled his cloak tighter against the chill breeze that stirred every so often. “Speaking of Thranduil, how is he? I haven’t asked yet.”

 

“You have had a good deal else to occupy your mind,” Oropher allowed.

 

“That, but also I assumed you wouldn’t be here checking up on me if anything had gone wrong,” Lutha pointed out.

 

“Astute of you, elfling,” Oropher said, smiling slightly. “But you are right. Thranduil is well. He is awake, and walking and talking, and making the most of being able to sass his elders more than he would usually be allowed to get away with. The path to recovery is likely to be long, but he is on it.”

 

“Has he driven Nestorion mad yet?” Lutha asked.

 

That made Oropher laugh out loud. “How well you know my son. He is certainly trying.”

 

“I am well aware of that,” Lutha quipped.

 

The good-natured jest didn’t offend Oropher, but he only managed a soft chuckle before his smile started to fade. “Lutha…” He paused to consider, not entirely certain if he even wanted to give voice to the thought suddenly in his mind. As Lutha looked intently at him, he took a deep breath. “I am loath to burden you with official business right now, so let us remain speaking as family. On your past travels between Mordor and Greenwood, you have taken injured warriors back home with you.”

 

“Yes. Quite frequently injured warriors will come…with…oh no, please don’t give Thranduil to me,” Lutha groaned, burying his face in his hands.

 

Oropher couldn’t help feeling stung by that. “You make it sound as though I am passing my son around like an unwanted gift, Luthavar.”

 

“Look, in normal circumstances Thranduil is absolutely delightful, but I fear if you were to entrust him to me now I would end up wanting to re-gift him to someone else,” Lutha said. “You must remember how difficult he was before you agreed to let him go to war in the first place. He will be twice as difficult if you send him home in the middle of it.”

 

“I am well aware of the potential obstacles,” Oropher said shortly.

 

“Not to mention the fact that neither he nor I are known for our sterling behaviour. When I see another elf misbehaving, my first thought is ‘that looks fun’ instead of ‘they ought to stop doing it.’ That alone makes me and Thranduil a bad combination. As to his current levels of sass, the only way I know to deal with that is by sassing back better and harder.” Lutha accompanied his words with a proud flick of his dark hair. “And _if_ Thranduil did something that would ordinarily get him put across someone’s knee, I couldn’t offer that service. I could throw a pine cone at his head and tell him to stop being an idiot but that’s about it. You’ve closed your eyes, Oropher, so I expect I’m giving you a headache, and I’m sorry for that, but I’m really not equipped to deal with what you’re proposing.”

 

Oropher had indeed closed his eyes. Not because he was feeling the onset of a headache but because he was having trouble working out what percentage annoyed and what percentage amused he was by his young cousin this time. It certainly wasn’t news to him that Lutha couldn’t play the part of a stern older kinsman. That went completely against the kind of elf that Lutha was, and Oropher would never expect Lutha to force himself into a role that made him uncomfortable. Even when Thranduil had been a small elfling, and Lutha had caught the Crown Prince at mischief, his usual half-hearted response had been “I mean, you probably shouldn’t.” While Oropher would have appreciated a little more help in overseeing the behaviour of his naughty offspring, he also appreciated that some elves were meant to be disciplinarians and some were not. Lutha fell firmly into the second category, and that was fine.

 

“If I was to send Thranduil home with you, it goes without saying that he would be accompanied by his guards and his gwedyr,” Oropher said, when he had decided that he was three quarters amused by Lutha and only one quarter annoyed. “Primary responsibility for looking after him would fall to Captain Boronthor, ably assisted by Linwë. You would not have to be involved in discipline if the need arose. We may even be doing Thranduil a disservice by assuming that it would.”

 

“I am relieved to hear that my input would not be needed. But you said _if_ you were to send Thranduil home,” Lutha observed.

 

“That I did,” Oropher acknowledged with a sigh. “This decision is not set in stone. I thought that it was on the morning that Thranduil woke, and since then I have gone back and forth on it. I may not yet know what I will decide, but what I do know is that my son has endured too much. A single day here in Ithilien has been a blessing for me and the warriors. Sending Thranduil home for a year or even half a year of recuperation would do wonders for him.” 

 

“He has gone through too much, yes,” Lutha agreed quietly. “You all have. Even without Thranduil’s captivity and the poisoned wound, I couldn’t do it. You have been in that awful place for years. I’d have gone mad long ago if I’d been there as long as you.”

 

“No. You wouldn’t. You are stronger than you think,” Oropher replied.

 

“That’s nice of you to say, but I’m at peace with my shortcomings,” Lutha said. He stared into the fire and shook his head with a helpless sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe you should send Thranduil home for a time. Just don’t tell him I said that.”

 

“You have my word,” Oropher said seriously. The gentle flutter of a cloak caught on the breeze captured his attention, and he looked through the fire to see that Elthoron had quietly approached but had stopped a short distance away when he’d realised that Lutha was not alone. The King inclined his head to Elthoron, and the Captain respectfully bowed his head in return. “Go, Lutha,” Oropher gently prompted his cousin. 

 

It seemed as though Lutha only had eyes for Elthoron as he smiled at him through the dancing flames, but he turned then to Oropher and hugged him. “Everything will work out the way it should,” he whispered fervently. 

 

“Of course it will,” Oropher whispered back, running his hand gently over Lutha’s dark hair. “Now go. Your Captain awaits.”

 

Everything will work out the way it should, Oropher thought, spinning those words around in his mind as Lutha went to Elthoron. He believed that. And yet, he couldn’t help his thoughts turning to Felith and Thranduil, and the rest of his family waiting for him back at Mordor. “Please let them be safe,” he breathed, letting the breeze take his words and hoping that someone, somewhere, heard them.


	13. Fire and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher takes his leave of one cousin, and starts the journey back to Mordor to confront the mysteries of another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains mention of torture and self-harm.

The patrol from Minas Ithil rode in at sunrise the next morning. While the Greenwood warriors made final preparations to leave, Oropher checked and then tightened the straps of his stallion’s saddle. He was eager to be reunited with the family that he had left behind, and to finally confront Galadriel. _Speak to Galadriel_ , he silently amended. If he had it in his mind that he was going to confront her, then a confrontation would indeed be how it played out. He didn’t want that. Despite Galadriel’s casual manipulation, she was still family through her marriage to Oropher’s older cousin Celeborn, and for the most part the King had always got along well with her.

 

Vaguely aware of the Minas Ithil patrol leader cheerfully demonstrating to Captain Elthoron how one of his men had nearly fallen out of his saddle when a bat had flown overhead, Oropher deduced that there was nothing of obvious concern for them to look out for on the way back. He finished checking his own saddle, and turned his attention fully to his horse. “I am sorry for you that we must go back already,” he murmured, earning himself an affectionate head butt to the chest from Gwilor. “I hope it won’t be long before you see grass again.”

 

“He won’t reply, you know,” came Lutha’s familiar drawl.

 

Oropher looked up with a wry smile. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Mostly his thoughts had drifted to Galadriel and her scheming, and the matter of sending Thranduil home, not to mention all the work that awaited him when he got back to the war camp. In amongst his broken sleep and disjointed thoughts, Lutha had been on his mind too. The Easterling threat was no more, but leaving Lutha with the supply train after what had seemed to be a very real threat was not something that sat well with Oropher. In the end, he had decided against taking Lutha back to Mordor with him. If there had been a genuine need relating to business of the realm, he would have done so, and entrusted command of the supply caravan to Captain Himlas or one of Lutha’s seconds. But there was no reason that would justify whisking Lutha away while the rest of his elves had to travel at slow-time. There were many privileges that came with being a member of the royal family. Some were unavoidable. Oropher had always been keen that he and his family should avoid taking advantage of those that were not. So, Lutha stayed.

 

“Lutha,” the King greeted his cousin. “I trust that you are feeling somewhat better this morning.”

 

“Yes, somewhat. I would feel much better if you left Elthoron here,” Lutha replied. He gave the older elf a sideways glance. “Shall we do a swap? Himlas for Elthoron?”

 

“We shall not, incorrigible bratling,” Oropher laughed. “And you had best not misbehave for Himlas just because he isn’t Elthoron.”

 

“Me? As if I would ever. Look, I thought about what you said last night,” Lutha added hastily, before Oropher could impress upon him the importance of good behaviour. “You know, sending Thranduil with me when I go home. I’ve decided that I think it is a good idea. Not for me obviously, but for him.”

 

“I am glad to have your support in the matter,” Oropher said neutrally.

 

“But do you think that you could tell him you’re sending him home _before_ I get there so that he has time to vent, rage, and generally emote?” Lutha asked. “If he’s silently seething by the time I arrive in a week, I can spend my whole visit avoiding him. Then when we have to leave twelve days later he should only be mildly disgruntled.”

 

“Mildly disgruntled. Very well. I will see what I can do,” Oropher agreed.

 

Lutha toyed idly with the teardrop ruby dangling from a delicate silver chain that he wore around his neck. “If you don’t change your mind again, that is.”

 

“It is a big decision that I do not take lightly,” Oropher replied quietly. “I see no harm in devoting deep thought to it.”

 

“No, I agree. You should absolutely take the time to consider it. It just surprises me that one of the most steadfast ellyn I know is so unsure,” Lutha said carefully.

 

“I value your concern, but it is not for you to be burdened with.” Oropher made himself sound lighter of heart than he truly felt as he gave his cousin a reassuring smile. “Now, it looks like Elthoron is finished with the patrol leader from Minas Ithil. You’ll want to spend more time saying goodbye to him than you will to me.”

 

A flash of irritation was there and then gone again in Lutha’s charcoal grey eyes. “You’re wrong.”

 

“About,” Oropher said mildly.

 

“That it isn’t for me to be burdened with. I’m one of the elves who you trust to help you run the kingdom, and as you rightly pointed out yesterday I’m also one of the elves responsible for making you be where you are today. For that alone I deserve to be burdened with it,” Lutha said, with no trace of his usual levity. “Official stuff aside, I’m your cousin. I don’t have enough fingers to count how many elves you’d rather confide in than me, but-”

 

“Lutha,” Oropher began.

 

“Don’t go all Aran Oropher on me for interrupting, but you don’t have to explain yourself or apologise for that. I understand,” Lutha said. “I’m only a little older than Thranduil, so I wouldn’t expect you and me to be like you and Celeborn, or you and Vehiron, or you and whoever else. But we _are_ family, Oropher. I still care about you even though you put me across your knee yesterday, so for that reason I _want_ to be burdened with whatever you have on your mind. I want you to trust me.”

 

“Luthavar,” Oropher said, sounding fondly exasperated. “It is not lack of trust that makes me hesitate. I simply would rather have you not worry about me when you have plenty else to occupy your mind. But,” he added meaningfully, when Lutha took the sort of deep breath that came before a protest, “I appreciate your willingness to listen.”

 

“So you’ll tell me,” Lutha deduced.

 

Oropher put his hand on the back of the younger elf’s gold-embroidered black tunic, and guided him a short distance away where they could speak surrounded by fewer elves. “I feel almost that there is a pendulum swinging in my mind. One side sends Thranduil home. The other side keeps him at war.”

 

“You did say that it’s a big decision,” Lutha said slowly.

 

“No, Lutha. I am a father whose child has endured hell. Sending Thranduil home is the easiest decision in the world.” Oropher was haunted by the torture and torment that Thranduil had lived through. His grief shone plainly in his emerald gaze as raw as if Thranduil’s captivity had only happened yesterday. “That means that keeping him at war is a decision that someone else wants me to make, and even now we are fighting for mastery of this choice.”

 

Troubled, Lutha hesitated. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to ask, “Do you think that Sauron wants him back?”

 

Oropher closed his eyes. How many times had Thranduil awoken, covered in sweat and tears and blood from his own gouged flesh, screaming, because Sauron had stormed his dreams with all the tortures that awaited him when he was returned to his place as the Dark Lord’s slave? How many nights had Thranduil been so afraid to sleep that every minute he pricked his finger with a needle to keep himself awake? And how many times had Oropher seen his son stiffen in the middle of dinner or a meeting, with dread written across his face, as Sauron slithered past the defences of his mind to insidiously whisper promises of pain? _Too many times._

 

“I know that Sauron wants Thranduil back,” Oropher said quietly. “But I cannot believe that this is him. I would feel the foul taint of his mind touching mine. This is Galadriel. Again. I don’t know what else to think other than that she has a hand in this.”

 

“But what difference does it make to Galadriel whether Thranduil is in Mordor or Greenwood?” Lutha asked slowly.

 

“What difference did it make to her whether I came to check on your safety or someone else did?” Oropher countered.

 

Lutha blinked at that. “What? I missed something.”

 

“She had me come to you when I would have sent someone else.” That was all Oropher could bring himself to say. He didn’t have the energy to dwell on it any more than he had already over the past few days. “I think that I have become a piece on a board, Lutha. I am being moved not where I would go but where someone else would have me.”

 

“But Galadriel is on our side,” Lutha said in soft protest, unable to hide a shiver at his cousin’s words.

 

“Galadriel is our friend and ally,” Oropher agreed quietly. “But these are dark times, Lutha. Dark times sometimes require sacrifice and ruthlessness for the good of all. I do not believe that there is anything Galadriel would not do for the good of Middle-earth.”

 

Heaving a deep sigh, Lutha sank onto the nearest available flat surface. It was a tree stump, its ancient surface cracked and gnarled. Lutha immediately stood up again, grimacing and muttering a curse in Elthoron’s general direction. “After I became settled in Greenwood, Elder Nestaeth taught me exercises to protect my mind from my childhood memories. Those exercises didn’t fix me completely, and Nestaeth never promised that they would. But they made enough of a difference that I still use them even now when intrusive thoughts come into my head. I could teach you, if you like.”

 

“I am grateful, Lutha,” Oropher said, and he truly meant that. “It sounds something like the work that Nestorion has done with Thranduil. But I think there is not enough time for me to learn how to guard my mind from one as strong as Galadriel.”

 

“No, I suppose not,” Lutha said wistfully. “Maybe you could just get Celeborn to ask his wife to stop being creepy.”

 

That startled a laugh out of Oropher, but he paused then, looking up as a horn sounded within the camp. “It seems that Captain Elthoron is ready to be gone from here.”

 

“Give my love to everyone except Galadriel,” Lutha said.

 

“I value your loyalty, but this is not your battle to fight.” Oropher pulled Lutha into a brief embrace, enjoying being able to give him a hug without having just punished him. He kissed his cousin’s brow when he drew back, and then met the younger elf’s eyes. “Good behaviour from here to Mordor, hmm?”

 

“I’m sure you can manage,” Lutha replied.

 

Oropher rolled his eyes as he stepped past Lutha to return to the warriors making ready to leave. He mounted up, and as he pulled his riding gloves out from where he had tucked them into his belt, he watched Elthoron stopping to speak to Lutha. The Captain had his hand cupped around the back of Lutha’s neck as they spoke quietly together, but he moved it forward then and tilted Lutha’s chin up with the tip of his fingers. He said something else, intently, before kissing Lutha. It was only a brief kiss, because Elthoron was self-conscious about public affection even if Lutha was less so, but they were both smiling when they drew back. It looked to Oropher like Lutha said ‘I promise’, so he assumed that Elthoron had given his lover a reminder to behave too – or more likely to keep safe, the King amended; Lutha never promised to behave, because he said that such promises were far too easy to break.

 

They rode out not long after that and began their journey back to Mordor. If the return journey was infused with less urgency than the outward one had been, it was certainly no pleasure jaunt in the park. They hunted along the way, and when one of the warriors spotted mushrooms at the side of the road, or berry bushes or apple trees, Elthoron called a halt to allow for gathering them up. It was true that they could have made it to Minas Ithil by nightfall, but that would have meant pushing the horses as hard as they had pushed them on the way out. Oropher couldn’t justify that to his warriors, or to himself, not when his desire to be returned to his family was based in feelings and suspicion and not hard proof of anything being wrong. He had to hide his impatience at the stops to collect food, too, but those were a necessary annoyance. They could have taken from the supply caravan, but those stores were for Mordor, where the water was foul and food was scarce. Ithilien remained a place of great bounty.

 

An hour before the sun started to fade, they stopped and made camp in a patch of woodland in the shadow of the Ephel Dúath. It wasn’t much of a camp, for they had no tents to set up, but shelter came from the canvas of trees above them and the overhang of the mountains beyond those. The warriors cooked the meat that they had hunted, and shared the fruit that they had picked. If it wasn’t a sophisticated meal, there was at least pleasure to be found in its freshness and rustic simplicity. Everyone got the chance to eat and spend time around the campfires, and all would have the opportunity to sleep at night. The guard duty shifts only lasted two hours at a time, and the changeovers were executed with the sort of quiet professionalism that Oropher had come to expect from Captain Elthoron’s company.

 

When the moon was high in the sky, Oropher went to seek his own rest. Wrapped in the warmth of his cloak, he sat with his back to an old _lebethron_ tree, the oddly smooth trunk not an uncomfortable place to rest. He half-listened to some warriors singing softly at one of the nearby campfires, and he breathed in deeply of the tree’s sweet and earthy scent. It soothed him. Not enough to make him stop worrying about his family, but enough that he thought he might be able to sleep in peace rather than the broken snatches of slumber of the night before. As he closed his eyes, the singing of the warriors faded.

 

_Oropher heard the clear and distinct voices of two people in conversation. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. The camp was gone. The fires were no more. Rhoven, who had been quietly settling down on the other side of the tree, was not there. Even the tree had disappeared. That woody scent that Oropher had drawn into himself was replaced by something that made him catch his breath. Roses and apple blossom._ Felith _. Looking around, Oropher realised that the woodland surrounding the camp had changed into four walls of silver and green silk. Where the light had come from the stars and the campfires, now it came from oil-lit glow lamps. There were no warriors lying on the ground, wrapped in their cloaks. Instead there was one bed, and it was a bed that Oropher recognised well, because he had spent many days next to it waiting for his son to wake._

_Thranduil was sitting on the edge of the bed in leggings of slate grey and a pale green shirt that was too big for him. Oropher recognised the shirt as being one of his own. Standing behind Thranduil with a brush in her hand was Felith. She was drawing the brush gently through Thranduil’s hair, golden strands rippling as the bristles made their journey from his head down to his lower back. Oropher opened his mouth to speak to his wife and their son, but nothing came out. It was like being underwater. He didn’t mind too much, because it was the way of dreams not to make sense. He was content to simply be with his loved ones even if they couldn’t sense him._

_And yet, he had to wonder if they_ could _feel his presence. Thranduil turned his face against his shoulder and breathed in deeply of his father’s shirt that he was wearing. Oropher didn’t know what his own unique scent was, in the same way that Felith had looked pleasantly surprised when he’d told her that she reminded him of roses and apples. But, Thranduil had once told Oropher that his scent was berries and nutmeg, and that it was a warm sort of smell, comfortingly reminiscent of a wintery day when Yule was excitingly close. Oropher liked that. He had marvelled at how specific his often-vague son had been, but he liked it very much._

_“You miss him,” Felith said softly._

_“It feels strange without him here,” Thranduil replied. “Don’t you think so?”_

_Felith was quiet for a moment as she smoothly guided the brush through her son’s hair. “Stranger for you, I expect. I had to become used to him being gone. You are used to having Oropher close. But don’t fret, laes-nín. He will be back soon enough.”_

_“I should be out of the healing tent by the time he gets back,” Thranduil said, sounding suddenly cheerful._

_“Hmm. And how much did you have to pester Nestorion before he would agree to that?” Felith asked neutrally._

_“Oh, not half as much as I’d expected to,” Thranduil replied. “Actually, Nestorion thinks that it will be good for me to get out of the healing tent before it drives me mad. Or maybe he said before I drive him mad.”_

_Either of those sounded right, Oropher thought, with a silent laugh._

_“One is as likely as the other,” Felith unknowingly echoed her husband’s thoughts. “So you will go back to your own pavilion, will you?”_

_“I don’t really have a pavilion of my own,” Thranduil said idly. “I move around depending on who is annoying me the most or who I’ve annoyed the most.”_

_“You must be often on the move then,” Felith teased the Prince, giving a lock of his hair a playful tug._

_Oropher watched surprise flicker across Thranduil’s face. It was replaced a moment later by an amused smirk and a nod of approval for his mother’s riposte. It pleased Oropher to see Felith and Thranduil so at ease with each other, and to see them in good spirits – especially Thranduil. Just a year out of captivity, he still regularly suffered through dark moments that could last days. It made his smiles and his laughter all the more precious._

_“I suppose it really depends on what I need,” Thranduil was clarifying. “Sometimes I need different things from different people.”_

_Thoughtfully gathering Thranduil’s golden hair in her hands, Felith let the bottom layer of it fall so that it hung loose down his back. The top layer she brushed back and then tied in a tail so that his hair would stay out of his face when he slept. “What do you mean by that, laes-nín?” she asked finally, setting the brush on the bedside table before helping Thranduil into bed._

_“Well, the pavilion where I stay often with my gwedyr was originally mine, but I would so regularly visit Ada and fall asleep on his settee that I sort of moved in with him. I gave my pavilion to Linwë, Fileg, and Veassen, but I didn’t fully move out of it,” Thranduil explained. “It was nice to have more than one place that I could escape to in this horrible land. That was always important, but since I…since last year, it is especially so. I need Ada when I’m having a bad time of it with night terrors. Fileg when I want to laugh, Veassen when I want peace. And Linwë…well, he fills many roles. But they have all done a wonderful job of looking after me this last year. I don’t know how to thank them. I wish that there was something I could do.”_

_“I don’t think that they expect it, laes-nín,” Felith said gently, even as Oropher shook his head silently._

_Thranduil sighed, but then he made himself smile at his mother through his moment of anxiety. “Probably not.”_

_“Probably not,” Felith echoed with a wry smile. “Now, you got into bed for a reason, did you not?”_

_The smile that Thranduil had managed to muster started to slip, but he pulled it back into place before Felith could notice. “Sleep,” he said dutifully, but Oropher knew the truth. He could see the flicker of fear in Thranduil’s eyes. He had heard the slightly caught breath. And he knew because he had been there night after night to see his son afraid to sleep, for even if Sauron didn’t penetrate Thranduil’s mind, the nightmares and flashbacks that did were no less horrific. But Thranduil wouldn’t tell Felith that. He didn’t always tell Oropher that, or Linwë, or Nestorion, or anyone else who had been there, because he was ashamed of himself for dreaming. He thought it a weakness that a young warrior, a King’s son, should still fear just one year after being a prisoner of war. Oropher often reminded him that even the survivors of Doriath dreamt darkly of that tragedy three thousand years later. That usually kindled some hope in Thranduil’s eyes that maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with him, but it never took long for the doubts to set in again._

_“You know the worst is over, Naneth,” Thranduil said, as Felith kissed his brow before resuming her seat next to the bed. “I’m not going to suddenly stop breathing in the middle of the night.”_

_“I don’t intend to stay here all night,” Felith replied. “Just allow me these moments with you, laes-nín. One day you will be a parent yourself and you will understand.”_

_“Ha. Me, a parent. Imagine that!” Thranduil laughed._

_“Go to sleep, Thranduil,” Felith said gently._

_Oropher watched as Thranduil turned his head on the pillow so that he was facing away from the Queen. Knowing his son’s habits well, Oropher stepped around the bed and trained his eyes on Thranduil’s hand. Nothing happened at first. Thranduil’s hand lay down by his side, out of Felith’s sight. Then, he slowly clenched his fist, and he dug his nails deep into his palm. Oropher breathed out a silent sigh. That fist-clenching would happen hundreds of times before the night was out. Thranduil may fall into an uneasy sleep, or he may make it to sunrise and remain awake, but whichever one came sooner his hand would end up slick with blood from so many small, freshly opened wounds._

_A wave of guilt crashed over Oropher, making him close his eyes. He was the one who Thranduil called for in the midst of night terrors. He was the one who gave Thranduil the confidence to go to sleep in the first place. He was the one who wasn’t there now to stop his son from harming himself. Felith couldn’t do it. It was happening right in front of her and she didn’t even know, because Thranduil wouldn’t want to upset her. Oropher wondered, had he even talked to Thranduil about leaving him behind while he rode off chasing an empty threat? He didn’t think so. Not beyond telling him to behave and stay well, anyway. The King couldn’t even blame Galadriel for that. He was Thranduil’s father. He should have known better. He should have done better._

_If Oropher had been corporeal, he would have slipped his hand into Thranduil’s and gently stopped the self-harm. He wouldn’t have made Thranduil sleep. He would have stayed up with him, and they’d have drunk cocoa and talked – maybe until sunrise, but maybe just until the early hours when exhaustion finally overtook Thranduil and he fell asleep with his head in his father’s lap. All Oropher could do now was stand at the bedside and stroke his fingers along the outline of Thranduil’s hair. He tried to imagine that he could feel the silky smooth strands, as if making it more real for himself would make it more real for Thranduil too._

_Oropher didn’t know if his presence had had an effect, or if it was coincidence, but Thranduil opened his fist and stared at his hand with a look that was almost one of regret. His palm was red and marked with nail marks, but the new marks hadn’t started bleeding and the old ones hadn’t opened. The Prince sighed quietly and turned his hand over, resting it flat on top of the blanket that was covering him. He burrowed deeper into his blankets then, pulling them half over his face and closing his eyes. Oropher was proud of his child. He knew that it had taken a lot._

_The King stayed close to Thranduil, and when he was satisfied that his son was asleep, he finally turned his attention back to Felith. He had noticed before that she was wearing a fitted tunic of indigo decorated with intricate gold embroidery, with pale gold leggings and knee-high boots of soft leather dyed a warm brown. He had also seen the black belt that she wore at an angle over her hips, and the sheath attached to it which held her knife. The presence of the knife wasn’t strange. Oropher was used to seeing Felith armed in times of strife. But what chilled him now was the sight of her hand wrapped so tightly around the mother-of-pearl hilt that her fingers shook. Every so often she pulled the knife halfway out of its sheath as if checking that it wasn’t going to catch on anything. Oropher longed to ask her what was wrong, but he had no voice there. Felith was jumpy, too. Every little noise made her whip her head around and stare, wide-eyed and pale, at the tent entrance._

_“You are jumping at shadows,” Felith whispered, sounding disgusted with herself as she rose and walked around Thranduil’s bed to the far corner of the tent where a glow lamp hung from a silver hook. There was one in each corner, casting bright but not intrusive light around the tent. With one hand resting on the hilt of her knife, Felith reached up and turned it down. The corner became a place of shadow._

_“Felith.”_

_The Queen of Greenwood spun around like a little girl caught stealing biscuits. Well, if little girls who stole biscuits whipped out deadly knives when they were caught. “Galadriel.”_

_Oropher looked sharply across the tent. He couldn’t help narrowing his eyes as his gaze fell upon Galadriel standing calmly just inside the entrance to the tent, her hands folded in the sleeves of her hooded gown. Its colour reminded Oropher of the tail feathers of the pigeons who flew messages back and forth from the palace. For some reason it seemed important that Galadriel was clad in shadowy grey instead of her usual silvers and whites. Oropher couldn’t imagine why. It was the sort of thing that fashion-conscious Lutha might be astounded by, but Oropher wasn’t sure why he should care._

_“You appear startled, tithen-bereth,” Galadriel remarked._

_“Then you ought not sneak up on people when their backs are turned,” Felith retorted, slamming her knife back into its sheath._

_Galadriel acknowledged the rebuke with a faint smile before letting her eyes slide past Felith. They lingered on the lamp that the younger elleth had turned down. “Best leave the other lights as they are.”_

_“Yes,” Felith said carefully. “They give out good warmth. I still struggle to switch between the heat of the day and the chill of night here. I have never felt anything like it.”_

_A murmured ‘hmm’ was Galadriel’s only response as she moved further into the tent. Oropher’s attention was caught not by that but by the fact that the canvas door was still tied open. It should have fallen shut behind Galadriel. They always closed it at night to keep the warmth in and the stinging bugs that were attracted to light out. “It seems that a fire has started near one of the communal healing tents.” Galadriel’s almost blasé comment pushed the open door far from Oropher’s mind. “I took the liberty of dispatching Thranduil’s guards to help with removing the patients from the tents nearest the flames. I shall remain with you until they return.”_

_“I see,” Felith said neutrally._

Ask her about the fire _, Oropher wanted to incredulously tell his wife._ Don’t just accept that there is a fire. Find out why. Find out how. Find out if you and our son are in any danger _. But Felith seemed not to be interested. She even seemed not to be surprised._

_“I hope that nobody was injured,” the Queen added fervently after a moment, and Oropher was somewhat mollified to hear that she was at least worried about that._

_“Nobody was injured. With the patients being evacuated I expect nobody shall be,” Galadriel said. “As for us, the fire will be extinguished long before it reaches here. Do not fear, tithen-bereth.”_

_“I don’t,” Felith said defiantly._

_Oropher was too confused to even be proud of his wife for that. He strode to the entrance of the tent and looked around until his gaze fell on a commotion further down the line of healing tents. In the way of things that made sense in dreams but would never make sense anywhere else, he was deaf to everything that was going on even though he should have been able to hear the shout of elves evacuating patients and the crackle and spit of flames. It looked like it was one of the supply tents that was on fire. That troubled the King, but if his people remained unharmed, it wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It could be managed and the supplies replaced. Putting the fire from his mind to be dealt with later, Oropher stepped back inside the tent and turned to watch as Felith took her usual seat next to Thranduil._

_“Be at ease, Felith,” Galadriel was saying quietly. “You know how this ends.”_

_The Queen nodded silently and put her head down on the side of the bed, using her crossed arms as a pillow. Her breathing became deep, and she held herself still and relaxed, but so many thousands of nights spent lying next to Felith told Oropher the truth. She was not asleep. This was an act. A prickle of unease crept up Oropher’s back and he turned his attention to Galadriel on the other side of the bed. She put her hand through a hidden slit in her skirt, and the silver blade that she withdrew flashed in the lamplight as she slipped it beneath Thranduil’s pillow._

_Unease turned to fear. Oropher tried in vain to make sense of what he was seeing. Suddenly, Galadriel lifted her head and looked straight at him. So clearly did she meet his eyes that he thought surely she had to be able to see him. He knew that he couldn’t speak in that dreamland, but he opened his mouth to draw breath and try. Galadriel’s crystal gaze flickered past him and fixed on the entrance to the tent for just a moment before she backed away to the corner that Felith had plunged into darkness. Her grey gown blended into the shadows, and all Oropher could see of his cousin by marriage was the gleam of her golden-silver hair. That too disappeared as Galadriel lifted the hood of her gown._

_Time held no meaning in that place. It could have been seconds. It could just as easily have been hours. Oropher had no idea how long he stood there in the middle of the tent before seven figures wearing long elven cloaks crept through the open door, bringing with them the scent of spice and flame. One by one, they lowered their hoods. Their faces were the olive shades of foreign lands. Oropher didn’t need to see their dark eyes or the curved blades that they withdrew from the folds of their cloaks. He knew what they were. He tried to stand before the Easterlings but they walked right through him as if he was a ghost. Desperate for his trapped voice to break free so that he could scream warning to Felith and to Thranduil, the King of Greenwood spun back to the bed. He felt paralysed from head to foot as the man at the front lifted his blade above Felith’s neck and drew it back._

_The sword flashed through the air. A second before it met its target, Felith leapt to her feet and whirled around with her knife drawn. She plunged it into the Easterling’s chest with hate burning in her gaze. “You will never take my son again,” she breathed, and she lifted her booted foot and kicked the Easterling in the midriff. She wrenched her knife free from his chest as he stumbled back into his fellows, blood bubbling on his lips._

_Their plot foiled, the Easterlings ran at the Queen with high-pitched cries that made Thranduil come awake with a jolt. He sat up quickly – too quickly, because pain registered in his face and he automatically pressed his hand to his side where his shirt hid his still healing wound. As Galadriel swept out of her darkened corner to fight side by side with Felith, Thranduil stayed where he was. He stared with the disbelief of one who had just woken and couldn’t possibly believe what he was seeing. The fear came next, making him freeze like a marble statue. It was the Easterlings who had captured him and taken him before Sauron, Easterlings who had toyed with him when Sauron had idly allowed his minions to play with the most precious of his slaves. Thranduil’s gwedyr coming to his rescue disguised as Easterlings had not allayed his fear of them. Oropher knew that his son often dreamed of Linwë, Fileg, and Veassen turning into the very Easterlings who had tormented him._

_Thranduil was a recovering prisoner of war, but he was a warrior too. Though his paralysis had no doubt lasted a lifetime to him, in truth it had been so short a time that Galadriel was only now finishing off one other intruder. Wide-eyed and helpless, Oropher watched his son reach beneath the pillows. There hadn’t been a knife under those pillows the whole time that Thranduil had been in the healing tent, but that was where his instincts told him to look. The young Prince grabbed the knife that Galadriel had put there, and he flung himself out of bed with a furious shout to distract the Easterlings from the ellith._

_That leap out of bed had surely dizzied his not yet recovered son, Oropher thought. Thranduil ran into danger. He didn’t hold back from it and let his enemies come to him. He must have needed the extra seconds for the Easterlings to notice him and break away from Galadriel and Felith so that he could regain his equilibrium. Two of the dark-eyed men approached him with their blades held high. Felith had just killed her second Easterling, leaving one each for her and Galadriel, so Oropher focused on Thranduil._ Two on one _, the King thought numbly._ Eru, help him.

_The strengthening exercises that Thranduil had been performing with Elrond and Nestorion, and the short sessions with a wooden practice sword, gave him strength enough to lift his knife to meet the sword aimed at his head. The clash of metal on metal sent a visible shudder through his arm. He disengaged, jumping a step back and ducking under the second blade that came towards him. He straightened quickly, and whirled to parry the first blade again. That defensive manoeuvre was all it took for Oropher to notice spots of blood on Thranduil’s shirt above his concealed wound._

_Though his stitches were breaking, and maybe not even aware of them, Thranduil fought on and dispatched the first Easterling with a swift cut to the neck. The spots of blood on his shirt were growing into one patch, dark enough and big enough that it made Oropher despair. Adrenaline drove Thranduil, though he was white-faced and unsteady on his feet. He kept lifting his blade as the second of the Easterlings fought to get inside his guard, but each parry was slower and slower than the one before. It didn’t take much for Thranduil’s enemy to confuse him with a feint to his right. As he turned to meet it, leaving his left side exposed and unprotected, the Easterling slammed a fist into Thranduil’s side where the blood had stained his shirt crimson._

_Thranduil’s knife fell from his hand and he dropped to his knees with a cry. The knife was out of his reach, but Oropher didn’t think that Thranduil could have lifted it even if it was near enough. His weakened muscles had been pushed too far. Breathing hard, strands of golden hair fallen in front of his eyes, Thranduil looked up at the Easterling advancing on him. The look in his eyes broke Oropher’s heart. It wasn’t fear. It was resignation. Oropher flung himself between his son and the Easterling, his arms spread out to the sides and rage written across his features. He was nothing but an invisible shield but he had to do something, he had to try._

_The Easterling stopped so close in front of Oropher with his sword raised that the King could see tiny red veins in the whites of his eyes. But though the sword was raised, it never fell. A knife appeared from behind and passed over the Easterling’s exposed throat with almost delicate precision. His eyes widened and a thick gurgle escaped his lips, just a moment before he fell with a rictus grin on his face. It left Oropher face to face with Galadriel, while Felith let out a cry of maternal fury and beheaded the final man on the other side of the tent. The headless body hadn’t even landed on the floor before Felith was running to Thranduil and throwing herself to her knees at his side._

_“Thranduil,” she breathed, cupping his face in her hands and kissing his brow. “It is over, laes-nín. No more.”_

_“Are you…” Thranduil closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was swaying from side to side as he fought to stay upright. “Are you hurt, Nana?”_

_“No, my elfling,” Felith whispered. “Galadriel, help me.”_

_Galadriel straightened from where she had been wiping her blade on a dead Easterling’s cloak, and she wordlessly helped Felith to guide Thranduil to his feet. “Nestorion…will be so…so mad…with me,” Thranduil jested weakly, letting the words slip out with each rasping exhalation of breath. “Those were good...good stitches.”_

_“We will take you to him now, elfling. Lean on me,” Galadriel commanded the Prince, supporting him with her arm around his waist._

_Though Oropher knew that he couldn’t possibly be in their way, he automatically stepped aside as Galadriel and Felith helped Thranduil across the tent. Thranduil was going to Nestorion, he told himself. Nestorion would fix it like he always did._ No more. It is over. No more. _Oropher silently repeated Felith’s words, needing to convince himself that it was truly done with. Surrounded by bodies, he watched Galadriel and Felith reach the door with Thranduil. Galadriel paused there and looked back over her shoulder. Across the scene of carnage, she met Oropher’s eyes and bowed her head to him._

 

Oropher awoke with a choked cry. The warriors on guard duty not stationed up in the trees spun around with swords drawn. Elthoron jumped up from the log that he had been sitting on next to the dying embers of the fire. On the other side of the tree that Oropher had chosen as his resting place for the night, Rhoven woke immediately from his light slumber and scrambled to his King’s side. All around the makeshift camp, warriors were waking, reaching for weapons.

 

“Fire…a distraction,” Oropher gasped. He could feel his heart thudding against his chest, above the hollow pit of his stomach. “They are attacked.”

 

Elthoron stared at the King with dread written across his fair features. “Who?”

 

“Thranduil. Felith. Greenwood is under attack.” Oropher surged to his feet. The world spun around him and he pressed his hand against the tree, steadying himself as his chest heaved up and down. “I saw it.”

 

“A dream perhaps, your Majesty,” Rhoven suggested softly.

 

A dream? Oropher put his hands to his head and laughed in disbelief. How could something so powerful, so real, have been but a dream? “No. Rhoven, no, listen to me. This is happening now.”

 

With one hand resting on the King’s shoulder, Rhoven turned his head and exchanged quiet words with Elthoron. Something about settling the warriors but being prepared to move out before sunrise. Oropher only heard it through a haze. Elthoron slipped away to carry out the older warrior’s orders, and Rhoven looked back at Oropher. “Did you have a nightmare?” the Captain asked, in the calm and steady way that Oropher had come to depend upon. All that it earned him now was a wordless stare from the King. Rhoven sighed in quiet understanding. “I did not intend my words to sound that way.”

 

“Good,” Oropher said coolly, though he wasn’t sure how they could have sounded any way other than patronising. “I need you to listen to me and trust me. Do you trust me?”

 

“With my life,” Rhoven replied without hesitation.

 

“Then trust me now,” Oropher said. “Under cover of darkness, a band of Easterlings penetrated the inner circle of our camp and used flames to distract our warriors. Their target was Felith, Thranduil, or both of them. These men knew exactly where to go. Felith and Thranduil are alive. I feel them. But they are wounded and afraid. They need me, Rhoven. I must go to them.”

 

“Then we ride now,” Rhoven said grimly.


	14. Of Reunions and Concessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finally making it back to Mordor, Oropher must confront the shocking events that occurred in his absence.

The rest of the journey back to Mordor passed in a blur for Oropher. He remembered inconsequential things like the butterfly that had landed on his stallion’s nose when they had stopped at a series of tiered pools to let the horses drink, but he didn’t remember which of Isildur’s sons he had spoken to during their short stop in Minas Ithil. One of the young princes had been committed with other duties, but his brother had come out to meet the elves. If Oropher’s life had depended on it he wouldn’t be able to say now if it had been Aratan or Ciryon. He remembered the wine coloured birth mark on the face of one of Elendil’s men who had guarded the Nameless Pass, but he had little memory of navigating the flag system that was meant to protect travellers as they crossed the Plateau of Gorgoroth. He did remember the whole return journey feeling painfully long, but when he and his elves finally rode beneath the green and silver silk banners that marked the borders of the Greenwood war camp, he had no way of putting into hours how long it had actually taken.

 

If Oropher hadn’t known that something had happened, the atmosphere of the camp would have told him so. He didn’t know when he had last felt anything like it. The long days of Thranduil’s coma had prompted fear and quiet worry from warriors and non-combatants alike. Thranduil’s even longer captivity had brought about a sense of deep sadness that over time had turned into a contagious sort of hopelessness. But this was like the ominous buzzing of a thousand bees. It was anger. Just raw anger that the enemy had infiltrated their camp and brought harm to their Queen and Crown Prince. Oropher felt the need for revenge emanating from every one of his warriors. It resonated with him. The part of him that was Felith’s husband and Thranduil’s father could happily order a retaliatory strike, but the part of him that was King and commander counselled patience.

 

The warriors of Elthoron’s company had dropped back at a silent signal from their Captain to settle their horses and seek rest. It was just Oropher, Rhoven, Elthoron, and three of the King’s Guard who came to a halt outside the Greenwood command tent where only days before Oropher had received intelligence from his spy. Lord Vehiron, Lord Herdir, and General Rochendil emerged from within, all three of them equally grim-faced. Oropher nodded briefly to them before wheeling his horse to face Elthoron. “I am thankful to you for accompanying me these past days, Captain,” he said. “I trust that you will convey my gratitude to your warriors on my behalf, and assure them that I will say it to them myself as soon as I can.”

 

“Of course, sire,” Elthoron murmured.

 

“Report the events in Ithilien to General Rochendil and Lord Herdir, and then rest.” Oropher didn’t wait for Elthoron to acknowledge the command before dismounting and turning his gaze to Vehiron. “Muindor, with me.”

 

The Lord Steward of Greenwood strode forward and gripped his elder brother’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “I am relieved to have you back.”

 

“I wish that it was in better circumstances,” Oropher replied darkly, though he returned the arm clasp.

 

As the brothers broke apart, Oropher turned to his guards. He wasn’t inclined to dismiss Rhoven, in part because that was a battle that he didn’t have the time or energy for, but he thought it best for the Captain to hear what Vehiron had to say anyway. He dismissed Lieutenant Ephedir and Lieutenant Reithor, along with their red haired sergeant Astoreth, thanking them for their service and asking that they handle the care of his horse and Rhoven’s before they went to rest. All three of them saluted, and Astoreth gave the King a motherly, sympathetic smile before shooing the younger warriors away with a wave of her riding crop. Her smile made Oropher feel, for the briefest of moments, that everything would be all right.

 

“You know what happened,” Vehiron said, as he walked away from the command tent with Oropher and Rhoven.

 

“I know.” Oropher would elaborate later, but he didn’t have time for it then. “Talk to me, muindor.”

 

Vehiron took a breath. He hesitated then, and let it out slowly. It was clear to Oropher that his brother had no idea where to start. “Felith is well,” Vehiron said finally. “She has a few bruises and shallow cuts from the fighting but nothing more. The old injury to Thranduil’s side reopened. Nestorion has seen to it and continues to observe it as a precautionary measure. Thranduil lost a lot of blood, but most of his troubles are from the excessive use of muscles that were not ready to be worked so hard.”

 

There were official questions to be asked, but Oropher couldn’t push his paternal feelings far enough away to be able to concentrate on those just yet. “Will that delay his recovery by much?”

 

“Not in the long term, but Nestorion has been treating him for pain since the attack,” Vehiron replied. “His healing tent is not currently fit for occupation, so he has been resting with his gwedyr.”

 

“Very well,” Oropher said quietly. “I would know how this happened, muindor. Tell me how our defences came to fail so spectacularly that Easterlings walked into our camp and straight into my son’s tent.”

 

“Our defences did not fail spectacularly, Oropher,” Vehiron said. “There is more to this than you know.”

 

“I cannot wait to hear about it,” Oropher replied cuttingly.

 

“The Easterlings had help.”

 

Oropher went still as the words penetrated. “We have a traitor?” He felt cold from the inside out.

 

“Not us.” The other two ellyn had stopped with Oropher, and Vehiron turned back to face his brother. “Elendil.”

 

“That’s some consolation,” Rhoven murmured.

 

Treason was a gut-wrenching thing for a King to have to face. Oropher pitied Elendil, but at the same time he had to agree with Rhoven. That the treason had not come from within his own ranks was something to be grateful for. He took a deep breath and continued walking, his brother and the Captain of his guard falling into step on either side of him as they passed the armoury tents. “Carry on, muindor.”

 

“Seven men entered Thranduil’s tent two nights ago. Six were Easterlings. One was Gondorian,” Vehiron said. “We might not have realised had Prince Elendur not witnessed the removal of the bodies when he came to offer his assistance.”

 

Oropher thought back to his vision of the attack. It didn’t sound right to him that not all of the men had been from the east. He reminded himself then that he hadn’t looked at every one of them at length. Enough of them had clearly been Easterling that he had assumed that they all were. And why would he have believed otherwise? He hadn’t been looking for one of his ally’s men to be there. “Who was the Gondorian?” Oropher asked.

 

“A foot soldier of middling years. He was conscripted a few years ago after being caught tricking war widows out of their husband’s pensions,” Vehiron replied grimly.

 

“A creature like that wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at turning his cloak if there was something in it for him,” Rhoven said, with a disgusted shake of his head. “I expect it is too much to hope that any of these men survived to be interrogated.”

 

“Galadriel, Felith, and Thranduil were thorough enough that none were left alive. But in the crisis talks that followed, we were able to piece together what may have happened,” Vehiron said. “It seems likely that this attack was inspired by Thranduil’s gwedyr disguising themselves to cross into enemy territory and bring him back to us a year ago. They pretended to be Easterlings. The Easterlings pretended to be Elves.”

 

Rhoven grimaced at that. “I seem to recall General Rochendil saying that we should be aware of copycat attacks.”

 

“He did say that,” Vehiron sighed. “We had the records of lost items scoured, and over the last few months seven of our warriors have reported the loss of their military issue cloaks. Four of the cloaks worn by the Easterlings and their accomplice had the initials of their original owners stitched into the hem.”

 

“Months,” Oropher repeated distantly. “They were planning to recapture Thranduil long before he was confined to the healing tent.”

 

“Likely they started planning to recapture him as soon as they lost him,” Vehiron said, giving his brother a sympathetic look. “The healing tents are a hive of activity. His being there would have made it easier, not harder, for them to put a plan into action. Especially with the fire that they set.”

 

“I trust that there were no casualties,” Oropher said quietly.

 

“Two healers and three warriors received burns whilst fighting the fire, but their injuries are not serious,” Vehiron replied. “We made it through this without losing any of our people, muindor.”

 

That was something to be grateful for, though Oropher was under no illusions about what might have happened if the fire had been worse or if anyone had got in the way of the Easterlings as they had passed through the camp. He paused as the pavilion where Thranduil often stayed with Linwë, Fileg, and Veassen came into sight up ahead. “The Easterling threat against Lutha and his elves was false,” Oropher said then, meeting his younger brother’s eyes. “I don’t know what connection it had to this attack, but I want you to talk to the spy who brought this intelligence to us. See what he has to say for himself.”

 

“Do you doubt his loyalty?” Vehiron asked neutrally.

 

“I think not,” Oropher said after a moment of hesitation. “But he will wish to interrogate his sources.”

 

“I will see to it,” Vehiron promised.

 

Oropher nodded shortly. As his brother bowed to him and left to carry out his orders, the King strode on to the tent where his son was resting. On a normal day, two of Thranduil’s guards would be standing on duty. Today, all of them were there. Sergeant Aravir stood grim-faced, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Next to him was Lieutenant Esgaldor, Elthoron’s younger brother, who looked like he would rather be anywhere that wasn’t under his King’s gaze. On the other side of the entrance into the tent were Lieutenants Angtheldir and Carthalon. They both paled at the sight of Oropher’s approach, and Carthalon went so far as to drop his gaze completely. Oropher supposed that they were the ones who had been on duty the night of the attack. For Angtheldir, the arrival of Oropher and Rhoven was no doubt a double blow. Along with Himlas and Veassen, he was another of Rhoven’s many descendants. Rhoven gave his third youngest grandson a small but reassuring nod as they reached the tent.

 

“Your Majesty.” Captain Boronthor, Rhoven’s equivalent who commanded the Prince’s Guard, stepped out of the tent and came forward to meet the King. He usually saluted, but now he bowed. Though he met Oropher’s gaze when he straightened, his catlike green eyes were full of shame and regret. “I am deeply sorry that this has happened.”

 

“As am I, Captain,” Oropher replied. “I would speak to the warriors who were on duty that night.” What he longed to do more than anything was go straight to Thranduil, but as the King he didn’t always have the luxury of being able to put his son first. Sometimes, to his deep sorrow, not even second or third. He watched as Angtheldir and Carthalon left their posts at a nod from their Captain.

 

The two young elves were similar to each other in age, though some centuries older than the Prince whose life they had guarded for six yéni. In height there was barely an inch between them, but Carthalon was as slender as a young tree while Angtheldir had his grandfather Rhoven’s broad shoulders. Where Angtheldir’s hair of dark ash blond was perfectly straight, waves rippled through Carthalon’s honey gold locks. But it was their eyes like forget-me-nots that were so startlingly alike that Oropher had once commented to Rhoven that Carthalon could well be another of the Captain’s descendants. Rhoven had laughed, but said that he hoped not because it was difficult enough keeping track of all the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and nieces and nephews he already had. As the warriors stopped in front of their King, their so similar eyes were equally dark with trepidation.

 

“Tell me about that night,” Oropher quietly commanded them.

 

Angtheldir took a deep breath and hesitated, as if he was hoping that Carthalon would get there first. When the other ellon stayed silent, Angtheldir slowly let his breath out. “It was a normal night, aran-nín. Nothing was out of the ordinary until the fire. Even then we didn’t think much of it. A spark from a campfire lit too close to a tent wasn’t cause for concern. At that point there was nothing to suggest that the fire was anything more than that. And it was far enough away that moving the Queen and Prince Thranduil didn’t seem necessary.”

 

“The wind direction that night was in our favour, too,” Carthalon added.

 

Angtheldir nodded agreement. “We thought it best to stay where we were and simply keep an eye on the fire.”

 

“But something changed,” Oropher said.

 

“Lady Galadriel came to us,” Carthalon replied quietly, when Angtheldir gave him a sideways glance of encouragement. “She told us that we were needed because the fire was spreading towards the communal healing tents where patients were waiting to be evacuated.”

 

“You do not take your orders from Lady Galadriel,” Oropher observed.

 

“No, we don’t. But with respect, sire, she promised to watch over Queen Felith and Prince Thranduil until we returned,” Carthalon said. “Lady Ravennië was there too, waiting outside for her Majesty to finish her visit.”

 

It was starting to become clearer to Oropher why the warriors had deemed it appropriate to step away from their posts. The force of nature that was Galadriel notwithstanding, Ravennië was a force to be reckoned with in her own right. A dark-eyed Noldo trained in the arts of espionage and covertness, she held the position of one of Felith’s most senior ladies whilst also serving the King and Queen as spy mistress and their agent abroad. She had rescued Thranduil from trouble more than once, and along with Lord Baralin she had saved Lutha from near execution when the Emperor of Khand had accused him of seducing the Empress. That accusation had not been entirely unfounded, though it was the young Empress who had instigated the affair while Lutha had let himself be swept along with it. Ravennië had killed and nearly been killed in her service to the crown. She was a master of poisons, and always armed to the teeth even when one thought that she surely couldn’t have a single blade on her. No, she and Galadriel were certainly fair replacements for Angtheldir and Carthalon, and the two warriors would have known that. The fact that the attack had still happened suggested to Oropher that Ravennië had known of its coming and had slipped away to let the Easterlings pass.

 

“So you helped to evacuate the patients who were in the fire’s path,” Oropher said finally, returning his gaze to the lieutenants. “You are both to be commended for that.”

 

“Thank you, your Majesty,” the ellyn said in uncertain unison.

 

“Captain Boronthor. Have these warriors yet been punished for their actions two nights ago?” Oropher asked.

 

Boronthor stepped forward from where he had been unobtrusively watching and listening just off to the side. “No, sire. Queen Felith advised against it. Given the circumstances as explained by Lieutenant Angtheldir and Lieutenant Carthalon, I did not deem it the right course of action. But you must judge as you see fit.”

 

“Indeed.” Oropher gave the two young warriors a long look before returning his inscrutable gaze to Boronthor. He allowed his expression to soften and a small smile of benediction to pass across his lips. “I am inclined to agree with the Queen and with your judgement, Captain. You have always served my family loyally and faithfully. As have your warriors.” The King’s glance took in not just Angtheldir and Carthalon, but Aravir and Esgaldor still at their posts a short distance away. “I have every confidence that you will all continue to do so.”

 

“On our honour,” Boronthor murmured.

 

Angtheldir sighed in quiet relief and bowed his head gratefully, but Carthalon looked doubtful. Oropher was sure that if either of the warriors felt guilt over what had happened on their watch, Captain Boronthor would help them make whatever reparations they felt were necessary. As far as the King was concerned, the matter was closed. He clasped first Angtheldir’s arm and then Carthalon’s in a warrior’s grip, wordlessly conveying his forgiveness, before stepping past them towards the tent. He didn’t stop to speak with Aravir and Esgaldor beyond quietly thanking them for standing guard.

 

The inside of what had originally been intended as Thranduil’s pavilion was identical in size and layout to Oropher’s, though the rooms served different purposes. Where the silk hangings between the two rooms at the back of Oropher’s pavilion had been taken down to make one large master bedroom and dressing room, the silk hangings were still up here. The room on the left was Linwë’s and where Thranduil slept when he came back to stay with his gwedyr, while the room to the right had been turned into an additional washroom to account for the extra elves in the tent. What was the study in Oropher’s tent was Fileg and Veassen’s room in this one. The only part that was the same as Oropher’s was the lounge area, though despite Linwë and Veassen’s best attempts, it was noticeably less immaculate. Fileg was the worst culprit for leaving things lying around.

 

Oropher used the dining table in his tent for its original intended purpose because he still had a study that he could work in, but he knew that the younger ellyn ate wherever they liked and used their table for drafting reports when they returned from patrol, cleaning their boots, writing letters to home, and playing an assortment of games. A game of cards was in progress at the table right then, with Linwë and Veassen sitting opposite each other and glancing up every so often to try and read the other’s face. Linwë was in uniform with his collar loosened and his sleeves rolled up. Veassen was either on a free day or he’d changed out of uniform after coming off duty, because he was dressed casually. In the middle of the lounge was Fileg, lying on the settee with a bottle of ink balanced on his chest and his lips pressed together in concentration as he tried to write in his journal. His still healing foot was propped on a pair of cushions. Every so often he glanced over at Thranduil, sitting in a comfortable chair with his eyes closed and his head resting in his hand. So did Linwë and Veassen. It wasn’t clear to Oropher, standing in the doorway, if Thranduil was actually sleeping or if he was feigning it to keep his friends happy.

 

The moment that Linwë and Veassen realised that the King had arrived, they abandoned their game of cards and stood up. Oropher gestured dismissively, in part to stop Fileg struggling to his feet and unbalancing the pot of ink on his chest. The sound of the other ellyn moving had disturbed Thranduil, and he sat up straighter but didn’t stand. He often chose to stand as a mark of respect for his father and King, but Oropher never expected it of him save for on formal occasions where there was no escaping it. Oropher certainly didn’t expect it now. He strode forward and knelt in front of Thranduil’s chair, reaching up to gently cup his hand around the back of his son’s neck. Exhaustion was evident in Thranduil’s face, along with relief that his father had returned, but in his eyes there was something else; shame perhaps, or guilt. Oropher carefully drew Thranduil into his embrace and held him close.

 

The Prince took a couple of quiet, ragged breaths, and then he whispered, “I froze.”

 

Oropher just tightened his arms around his son and met Linwë’s jade green eyes over Thranduil’s shoulder. A silent message passed between them. Linwë nodded wordlessly and stepped around the table, lighting touching Veassen’s shoulder and inclining his head towards Fileg. Oropher kept Thranduil close, and he only drew back slightly when Linwë and Veassen had left the tent with Fileg, the pair of them having helped their injured friend up without spilling a drop of ink.

 

“You froze for a second or two perhaps, my elfling,” Oropher said softly, alone with his son.

 

“No. Longer. You weren’t there, Ada,” Thranduil replied bitterly.

 

“No doubt it felt like a lifetime to you, but that is the way of such things. I promise that it was nothing.” Oropher touched Thranduil’s cheek lovingly and then he sat back on his heels, brushing his cloak out of the way with a negligent wave of his hand. “I understand that you fought well.”

 

“I survived. The Easterlings didn’t,” Thranduil said sardonically. “But I wouldn’t have survived if not for Galadriel. I suppose she goes on the list of people we’re forever indebted to.”

 

“I think she was already on that list, laes-nín,” Oropher retorted dryly.

 

With a sigh and a nod, Thranduil conceded the point. “I think you’re right.”

 

“Vehiron told me that you were injured in the fighting,” Oropher said, carefully keeping his tone casually interested rather than that of an overprotective father. He watched Thranduil dutifully pull his shirt up and turn slightly. The old wound that had reopened was freshly bandaged, but spilling out from underneath the bandage was a mass of blue and black bruising. Oropher had to fight down a wave of paternal fury in order to comment, “Impressive. How much pain is it giving you?”

 

“Just some.” Thranduil hesitated, and then he tried to cover his hesitation by smoothing his shirt down again. “I could barely stand after the attack. It was like every muscle in my body had turned to water and the whole world was spinning. Rochendil had to carry me to Nestorion. I kept telling him that I could walk but I don’t think I could have even if my life had depended on it. Rochendil probably knew that, too.”

 

“I am sure he did, but there is no shame in it,” Oropher said quietly. “Remember where you were a week ago. Your body was not ready to be used in so strenuous a way. I am proud of you for having come so far, laes-nín. If you keep listening to your healers and applying yourself to your recovery, I have every faith that you will be back to full strength before long.”

 

“I will listen to them,” Thranduil promised. “I am listening to them.”

 

“Good boy,” Oropher murmured. “And how are you, Thranduil?”

 

The Prince blinked and lightly touched his shirt where it covered his injuries. “Is the bruising so impressive that you want to see it again?”

 

“Not there. I mean here.” Leaning forward, Oropher gently tapped Thranduil’s chest above his heart, and then his head. “And here.”

 

“Oh. There and there. I’m fine,” Thranduil said.

 

“There is no right or wrong answer to that question, but please let it be a truthful one,” Oropher said softly. “I will never censure you for the truth.”

 

Thranduil leaned back with a sigh. Layer by layer, his mask started to crumble. Vulnerability flickered in the cracks of the levity that he had fought to maintain. There were no tears in his eyes, but sadness shone in their depths. “I am tired, Ada,” he said finally. “I was tired before this attack. I was tired before the coma. I was tired before my captivity. But everyone here is tired. Not just me. We have seen so much war and death these past years. How can we be anything but weary of it?”

 

There was nothing for Oropher to do but nod in quiet agreement to that. Thranduil was right. Everyone was tired of war, from the highest of commanders to the lowliest of camp cooks. There wasn’t a soul among them who didn’t pray for it to be over. “You are certainly correct in that, laes-nín.” The King rose from where he had been kneeling, and he took the chair next to his son’s instead. “Everyone is tired. But you are not everyone, and everyone is not you.”

 

“Ada, no, I don’t want the special treatment conversation again,” Thranduil protested, putting his head in his hands with a frustrated huff. “I’m not interested in ‘poor Thranduil, he was Sauron’s prisoner and then he spent two weeks in a coma and those pesky Easterlings are _still_ after him? Oh, he’s having a really bad time.’ You know I’ve never wanted that. I’m not the only one to have had a bad time of it. Amroth lost his father and now he’s the King of Lórien. I can’t even imagine that.”

 

“I know that you have never wanted special treatment. Just as well, because that’s not what this is,” Oropher said firmly. “This is about recognising that your experiences are unique to you, just as Amroth’s are unique to him and mine are unique to me. Thousands of elves and men are living through this war, Thranduil. We are all experiencing it in our own ways. So when I ask you how you are, I don’t want you to ever think that you cannot be completely honest about how _you_ feel.”

 

“It’s not dishonest to say that I’m tired. I _am_ tired,” Thranduil insisted.

 

Oropher gave his son a nod of gentle encouragement. “What makes you feel tired?”

 

“I don’t know. The war and its endlessness. But…but I suppose if you want an answer unique to me, then it’s my memories and my nightmares that make me tired,” Thranduil said slowly. “Not knowing from one day to the next whether I’ll have to fight Sauron in my head, and then finally _having_ to fight him. That makes me tired as well. Fighting myself, and all the dark thoughts and feelings that I don’t always have control over is exhausting. So is missing the beauty and peace of home, wondering if I’ll survive this and ever have the chance to sneak biscuits with Ivy again or help decorate the palace for Yule, and regretting that I waited my whole life to realise my love for Aiwen. And do you really want me to be honest, Ada?”

 

“I do,” Oropher said quietly.

 

“I’m scared,” Thranduil said abruptly, as if getting the words out quickly would make them easier to say. “Not for myself, but…”

 

“Not for yourself?” Oropher repeated, filling the silence left by his son’s trailing off.

 

Thranduil stared into the distance at some invisible point and took a couple of deep breaths. “Yes. For myself. I can’t be his prisoner again. But mostly I fear for others.”

 

“Why, my elfling?” Oropher asked gently.

 

It seemed for a moment that Thranduil’s only response would be the quietly bitter laugh that he released, but finally he spoke. “I don’t believe for a second that I am so important to Sauron that he sees me as anything but a somewhat tactically useful plaything he can entertain himself with when he is bored or the siege is quiet. But I can’t deny that he wants me back. I was the target of the attack two nights ago and we are lucky that none of our people were killed. Bad enough that some of them were injured putting out the fire. Nobody should have to be collateral damage for me, Ada. I don’t want that and I am afraid that it is only a matter of time before someone else pays the price for my stupid mistakes. So…so I guess that’s it. I’m heartsick and exhausted. You wanted me to be honest, but I don’t know what else to say.”

 

“You don’t have to say anything else if you have said everything that is in your heart, and even if you haven’t,” Oropher replied, reaching out to gently stroke a lock of hair behind Thranduil’s ear. “Thank you for sharing your feelings with me. I confess that you and all these things that you spoke of have been on my mind a lot of late, laes-nín.”

 

“Sorry about that,” Thranduil said, with a hint of his usual levity.

 

Oropher smiled slightly in acknowledgement of his son’s attempt to lighten the mood. “It has occurred to me that perhaps it might be wise for you to leave this place until you are more fully healed in mind and soul.”

 

“Are you ordering me home?” Thranduil asked without hesitation.

 

Oropher did hesitate. “No,” he said then. “You have been honest with me, and I will be honest with you. It would have been an order if this conversation had taken place a week ago. I felt such desperation when I nearly lost you again. But making it an order would have been an unfair disservice to you. I am not _ordering_ you home, Thranduil. I would just ask you to give serious consideration as to whether this is the right place for you to be while you are recovering.”

 

“I belong here,” Thranduil said. “My place is at your side, Ada.”

 

“You do not have to be near me to serve me,” Oropher replied. “There are other ways that you can serve me and the realm, and the war effort, without being here.”

 

“Perhaps. There is a lot to do at home, I know. But I have a duty to my company as well. Captain Curulas came to see me while you were away, and he said that he is looking forward to having me back under his command when I am well enough,” Thranduil said. “Unless you know otherwise, I believe that still stands. I want to go back to Captain Curulas. I want to carry on serving you here. I want things to go back to normal.”

 

Oropher took Thranduil’s hand in his and turned it over. He gently ran his thumb over the cuts, some fresh and some older, that covered the Prince’s palm. “There has to be a better normal than this, my elfling.”

 

For the first time since the start of their conversation, tears filled Thranduil’s eyes. “I know,” he whispered, looking away. Oropher didn’t say anything, but he kept Thranduil’s hand in his to give his son a chance to compose himself. Thranduil took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m not proud of it.”

 

“I know,” Oropher quietly echoed his child. “I do not want you to be ashamed of it either.”

 

Thranduil laughed darkly at that and looked back at his father with the tears that he had tried not to shed clinging to his lashes. “I can’t help it.”

 

“No, you can’t help it,” Oropher agreed, intently returning Thranduil’s look. “You can’t help your feelings any more than you would be able to help catching a chill. What you are experiencing is not weakness. You have not failed. You are simply unwell. Emotional sickness is no less valid, no less worthy of care, than physical sickness. You wouldn’t think so if it was someone else.”

 

“Of course I wouldn’t. I just don’t know how to fix this. How to fix myself. I…” Thranduil stopped, doubt clouding his gaze. “Do you believe that being at home is the solution?”

 

“When these problems are rooted in battle-sickness from years of war, and trauma from captivity, I must question the wisdom of keeping you on Sauron’s doorstep,” Oropher said carefully. “Removing you from the situation certainly seems like the obvious solution. I’m not saying that it would have to be a permanent thing. A year at home, even half a year, could be all that you need. There would be no shame in it. No judgement. We all just want the best for you.”

 

“Ada, I don’t want us to fight about this,” Thranduil began.

 

“Neither do I,” Oropher said readily.

 

“But I need to know that talking about this isn’t just a waste of my time and yours,” Thranduil said. “Because if you’re just humouring me and you’ve already made up your mind to send me home regardless of my wishes, there’s no point.”

 

“That has never been my way. Not as your father and not as your King,” Oropher replied quietly. “I do not intend to start now. But you understand my position.”

 

Thranduil had not been born a prince, but he had only been a little boy of twelve when his parents had been crowned the rulers of Greenwood. He had come to learn from an early age that Oropher the father and Oropher the king were not always one and the same. That requirement for Oropher to sometimes treat Thranduil not as his son but as his subject or his heir had been one of the few sources of strife in their otherwise strong relationship. Oropher had always tried to make it as painless and rare as possible, and Thranduil had always tried to bear it with grace, but it had certainly never been easy for either of them.

 

Still, Thranduil accepted that he and Oropher were not just father and son. They were King and Prince, ruler and heir, lord and subject, commander and warrior. Oropher had only enjoyed twelve years of being _just_ a father. As for Thranduil, he had never known the luxury of being his own elf. He was a member of the royal family, and he belonged to the people of Greenwood as much as Oropher did. Public opinion mattered. The Elders, the councillors, the court, and all of their differing views mattered. Ensuring the line of succession mattered. Thranduil couldn’t say that he was staying at war and that was the end of it, just as he hadn’t been able to say that he was going to war and that was the end of it. It had never been so simple.

 

“I do understand your position,” Thranduil said finally. “I’m your son and you love me. I’m your heir and you need me. I’m your warrior and you have a duty of care to me. And all the while, everyone is watching you to make sure that you do the right thing. You have to make the right choice for me, for you, for the throne, the realm, the people, the war – everything that no other parent has to think about. I get it, Ada. I really do. I’m sorry that you must bear that burden.”

 

“Not as sorry as I am that you must too,” Oropher replied gently. “So, you know where I stand. Now tell me where you stand.”

 

Thranduil nodded to acknowledge his father’s words but he didn’t speak as he gathered his thoughts. A dry breeze made the silk walls of the tent ripple. That was the only sound to break the silence until Thranduil finally took a deep breath. “I think that sending me home is a good idea.”

 

“But?” Oropher said dryly.

 

“I understand why you think that my not being here would help. I’m not saying that it wouldn’t make any difference at all. _But_ ,” Thranduil said, with a sardonic half-smile. “I don’t think that it is a miracle cure.”

 

“It certainly is not that,” Oropher agreed.

 

“We’re in the middle of war here, but the war is everywhere. That’s why there’s a garrison at Minas Ithil and why you had to go off after Lutha because he was under threat of attack. It’s why Greenwood still has a full home guard and border patrol even though we need as many warriors here as can be spared,” Thranduil said. “So sending me away would get me out of _the_ war but I would still be going to a place that is _at_ war.”

 

“Still, Greenwood is significantly safer,” Oropher said.

 

“My physical safety isn’t the issue,” Thranduil replied immediately.

 

Oropher conceded the point with a brief nod. “You don’t think that being in Greenwood would improve your mental and emotional wellbeing?”

 

“In some ways, but not all. I believe in my heart that as your son and heir, as a prince and warrior of Greenwood, and as a citizen of this world, my duty lies here,” Thranduil said quietly. “I would despair to be away from my duty, even in our beloved forest.”

 

“What of Sauron?” Oropher asked.

 

A shadow of fear flickered in Thranduil’s blue eyes, there and gone again as quickly as it had come. “Distance is no barrier to him,” the Prince said softly. “He would enter my head in Greenwood as easily as he does here.”

 

“Then no matter where you are in the world, we are going to have to make certain that you can block him from your mind,” Oropher replied just as quietly. “What you have been doing is not tenable, Thranduil.”

 

“I know it’s not.” Thranduil let out a heavy sigh, giving his injured palm an idle rub. “I don’t want to do this. I’ve had enough of being on edge every minute of every day. And do you know what I desperately want to do? I want to get into my bed and enjoy being there. I love sleeping. Being in bed is one of life’s pleasures. Sauron taking that away from me as well as everything else he has done is…it…it’s just really mean.”

 

Oropher had been interested to hear the end of that sentence, and he wasn’t disappointed. “That is one word for it, laes-nín,” the King laughed reluctantly, casting his son a fond look. It wasn’t funny, really. Nothing about it was funny. But being at war had taught them that they had to laugh where they could, even when the humour was dark.

 

“And mean is what he’s going for, so it isn’t even an insult,” Thranduil said. He summoned a weak smile, and then he breathed in deeply. His smile and indeed his entire expression became stronger. “I will do what it takes to get better, Ada. I will have weekly sessions with Nestorion again, and I’ll talk to Naneth and Galadriel. There may be something I can learn from them to block Sauron from my mind. I know that I can get through this. I just need another chance. And I need to stay, Ada. I really do.”

 

Even as Oropher’s heart sank, he leaned across to kiss his son’s brow. “Then you stay.”

 

“Thank you,” Thranduil said softly. “I won’t let you down.”

 

“You couldn’t,” Oropher replied, giving Thranduil a loving look.

 

Father and son discussed the matter no further, an unspoken agreement passing between them that it was over. Thranduil had made his choice, and he had done so with points that his father couldn’t in good conscience argue against. Oropher valued Thranduil’s opinions. It had always been important to him that he listen to his son and truly hear what he was saying even when they disagreed. He wouldn’t pretend that he was thrilled by the outcome of their discussion, but now that sending Thranduil home was off the table, the King just had to continue helping his son on the path to recovery however he could.

 

Oropher stayed with Thranduil for another half hour, and then the young elf started to get tired though he tried his best to hide it. With an affectionate embrace and a paternal kiss, Oropher left Thranduil to rest and made his way back through the camp to his own tent. On the way there, he firmly ordered Rhoven to go and catch up on sleep, an order that the Captain accepted with just a slight tightening of his jaw. He likely only did so because when they reached the royal tent, two of the Queen’s Guard were on duty outside though it was an empty tent that they were guarding. Part of Oropher felt disappointed that Felith was not within. He wanted to see for himself that all she had were small cuts and bruises. Part of him, though he hated to admit it, was relieved. He needed time to think about what he was going to say to her.

 

Water and warm cloths had been laid out in the washroom, and after stripping his travel worn clothes off, Oropher made short work of washing the dust off. It was nothing like bathing in Lutha’s favourite pool, he thought ruefully. He dressed afterwards in charcoal coloured leggings and soft calf-high boots, leaving his tunic of sapphire and forest green unlaced at the front. For added comfort he rolled the sleeves of his finely embroidered silver-on-white shirt up above his elbows. The King’s attendant and cousin-by-marriage Lord Halmir would raise his eyes skywards if he saw it, but for now, Oropher was at ease. Sometimes it was nice to dress as any other ellon would and not as Aran Oropher – even if not all ellyn wore silk and satin.

 

Despite his attire, Oropher couldn’t entirely shake off the mantle of kingship. He went into his study and picked up a leather folder containing all the matters that had arisen during his absence. Considering the Easterling attack, the folder wasn’t as thick as it could have been. The King silently thanked Vehiron and Herdir for no doubt having fielded as much of the work as possible before it could reach his desk. They had always been good about that, Oropher reflected, as he took the folder out to the living room to at least sit in comfort while he worked. He didn’t get far. A few steps into the living room, he stopped, and stared across the room as Felith came in from outside.

 

The Queen stopped too with an indrawn breath. For the first time in days, they locked eyes with one another. Oropher set his leather folder down on the arm of the nearest chair and took an automatic step towards his wife. Taking Felith into his arms was the most natural thing to do, but the heavy silence and tension in the air told him that that was not how their reunion was going to start. So he stopped, and he just looked at Felith. She returned his gaze with her hands folded at her waist, visible through the sheer sleeves of her bluebell coloured gown. The set of her jaw and her slightly tilted chin made it clear to Oropher that his beloved was preparing herself for a discussion that neither of them would enjoy. One of them was going to have to start it, but Oropher was damned if he knew where in the world to begin. 


End file.
